


The Daily Grind

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety Attacks, Coffee Shops, Daddy Issues, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Substance Abuse, communication issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Jack wasn’t into relationships; it’s just that Jack wasn’t a relationships kind of guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was waiting for somebody to write this fic after it was mentioned in the 'Parse II' part of OMGCP. Nobody wrote it so -  
> so I did.
> 
> I don't know if I'll leave it unfinished after 3,000 words just because. We'll see.
> 
> (Disclaimer: I don't own Jack or Parse; they belong to the fabulous Ngozi.)

He needed the money. That was the only reason Jack Zimmerman, ex-high school hockey darling, decided to work at _‘The Daily Grind’._ He was sick and disowned, and he was near broke.

And he needed the money.

            And while Jack usually loved going to backwater cafés that played weird selections of indie music, he hated actually _working_ in one. He was already uncomfortable with socialising as it was, but now he had to do it for four hours a day. What’s worse, he started work bright and early at eight a.m. Monday through Friday. Not even Hope started that early.

            He thinks it could be worse, though. ‘The Daily Grind’ is a pleasant café; filled with plush, canvas pillows in soothing colours and tables made of reclaimed pallets and buttery leather chairs that make him think of home. When he’s saved up enough money, he’s going to buy a chair like that. All the countertops are plated in zinc, which is cool. Hope said that zinc works as a natural disinfectant, and that rich people used to have the tables in their kitchens covered in zinc, too.

Hope is Jack's saviour. She's an incredible young woman, and over the past four months of working under her gentle direction, Jack has forged a deep, glowing respect for her. She’s only twenty, but she already has a 2 year old daughter and is taking online courses to get her degree in children’s psychology. Not only that, but she works six hour shifts at the café, volunteers at the soup kitchen across town, and persuaded Jack to move in with her when he got evicted from the shitty place he was living when he arrived in Las Vegas. Hope and her daughter Maddy are the only solid pillars of love and support Jack has in his lonely, fucked up head right now, and Jack often tells Hope that she’s too good for this world.

They make a great duo, too – manning the fancy coffee machines behind the counter. He likes to think of her as his left wing. He feels like he can pass her the figurative puck without looking, and she’ll always be there to receive it. In fact, all of his co-workers have become like a mini team to him. Dan, who does most of the cooking (and also most of the drinking), is a solid d-man, and Ross (“It’s fucking Smitty. Don’t ever call me ‘Mr Ross Smith.’”), their assistant manager, is the goaltender. No unhappy customer gets any special treatment except through his permission.

But Jack’s new team didn’t score goals, it sold six dollar coffees and overpriced (but admittedly heavenly) food. Each new customer they drew in was another point on the scoreboard, and if that customer became a regular, it was like the game-winner.

Except it doesn't feel like he's scoring anything when their newest customer looks like a stupid, douchey frat boy in an Aces hat.

“Large maple cappuccino, double shot, extra froth, with cinnamon. Make sure it's really hot. Oh, and use coconut milk. I’m lactose intolerant.”

That is so gross. Also, fucking what? What is a ‘maple cappuccino’? And does coconut milk even froth? Is that supposed to be a _natural_ thing?

Jack stares blankly at the guy for a few seconds. “What the fuck?” slips out before he can put a filter on it.

The guy has the audacity to smirk, actually smirk, at him. “Is this how you greet all your customers, or am I just special?” he asks, his weird, multi-coloured eyes lighting up with mirth. The door to the kitchen bangs open.

“I’m a lot nicer when it’s not eight-fifteen in the damn morning and people give me _normal coffee orders_ for things we _actually have_ ,” Jack shoots back. He’s already thoroughly done with this dude.

“Oh my god – Jack, you idiot,” Dan mutters, pushing him out of the way and taking up residency behind the register. “I don’t know why Smitty decided to give you the morning shift. Sir – I’m so sorry about my colleague, he’s really not a morning person. What can I get you?”

The guy glances at Jack and grins as if in agreement. “I’ll just have an americano with coconut milk, since apparently your friend can’t make anything else at _eight-fifteen in the damn morning_ ,” he parrots back. Jack huffs; this dude has some nerve.

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t have coconut milk, but would you be alright with soy or almond?” says Dan gently, bless his heart.

“My god, you guys don’t have anything, do you? Fine - almond milk.”

Dan smiles down at the iPad he’s fiddling with and rings him up. “Anything else?” The guy shakes his head. “Can I get your name?”

“Kent,” says the guy.

“That’ll be $6.85, please.” Dan is handed a black credit card, one of those fancy new stainless steel ones, and he completes the transaction. When Dan sees the name on the card, he chokes, but Jack just ignores him and grabs one of the café's blue paper cups to make Kent’s drink. “If you’ll just wait over there,” says Dan calmly, pointing to the pickup ledge.

Jack picks up a sharpie to write the guy’s - Kent’s – name, and, after a few seconds, decides to leave him a little note about his (very questionable) taste in coffee. He gathers the funnel he'll need, and some filter paper. He leans over the back counter to expertly pour water over coffee grinds and hears a low whistle from behind him.

“This place has a great view,” Kent says offhandedly.

“Yeah, we’re so lucky that we got a location like we did – it’s not common in Las Vegas,” Dan replies, pulling his hands out of the display box where he was rearranging pastries. He keeps rambling, talking about coffee and the city and ‘oh have you visited this place yet’, but Kent doesn’t seem to be doing more than making absentminded noises of acknowledgement.

When Jack looks back, Kent is leaning on the pickup ledge and staring at his ass. Kent notices Jack noticing and offers nothing more than a cheeky little grin. Fuck him and his tight black t-shirt and his weird blonde hair that the morning sun seems to catch just so. Jack huffs again and hands the guy his dumb freshly brewed, fair trade, organic coffee.

Kent takes a quick sip as he swaggers off towards the door. He pauses afterwards, turns around, and gives Jack a dirty grin. “Thanks for the coffee, Jacky boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he’s gone in a flash.

Dan exhales slowly, running an incredulous hand through his floppy auburn hair. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Jack asks, looking at his co-worker.

“Dude, we just met Kent Parson. Kent _freaking_ Parson!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our dear Parsnip almost has an aneurysm because of Jack's ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably not going to stop at 3,000 words, guys. It's too much fun.
> 
> Here we go: chapter two!

Kent wakes up feeling like death warmed over. Maybe that moving party he had last night with the guys wasn’t such a good idea, especially with a 9:00 practise the next morning. He rolls out of his new bed, gets up, yawns, and thoughtlessly scratches his stomach as he heads towards the bathroom. _It’s really quiet here_ , he thinks, splashing his face with cold water. He’d gotten so used to hearing Chaser banging around in the kitchen of their old shared apartment that the all-consuming silence of his new condo is almost eerie. Kent sighs and dries his face, brushes his teeth, and runs his fingers through his hair a couple times before putting on the first shirt and trousers he sees in his mess of a suitcase.

In the kitchen, he washes four ibuprofen pills down with a tall glass of water and surveys the all of the cardboard boxes stacked everywhere. He’ll need to unpack those at some point. Yeah. _Some point._ He opens various cupboards in search of some of that instant coffee shit he been drinking for weeks in lieu of actually buying a physical coffee maker but only finds an empty jar with a post-it note stuck on it.

**Hey Parsnip, sorry about drinking all your coffee**

**\- Everett Chase**

**p.s. this shit fucking sucks. Buy a coffee machine or just go out and buy it in a café or something. Don’t do this to yourself, man.**

Chaser’s written the address to his favourite café underneath; the one he’s been trying to get Kent to visit since he first started playing with the Aces. Well, he finally has an occasion to buy ridiculously expensive coffee there. The only reason he hasn’t gone yet is because he doesn’t often feel like wasting money on something that he’s just going to pee out in a matter of hours. Rookie year may be over, and he may be able to afford anything he wants now, but to Kent there’s still a big line between spending a lot of money and being stupid with a lot of money. That instant shit got the job done fine, thank you very much.

He scrubs a hand down his face, his fine blonde stubble scratching his palm. Well, he has about an hour before he needs to be changed and out on the ice. He should probably get going sooner rather than later. Kent digs up his Aces hat and a pair of dark sunglasses (because that sun is giving him a killer headache) and gives himself one last once-over before grabbing his keys and heading to his silver Mercedes.

~*~

The coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is at least aesthetically pleasing. It’s the first thing Kent thinks as he climbs out of his car in front of the place. It’s a little nondescript; you’d probably miss it if you didn’t know it was there. There are ceramic pots filled with edible flowers and fragrant herbs out front which surround a couple of delicate wrought iron tables. When he pushes the door to the inside open, the distinctive smell of freshly ground coffee hits him like a ton of bricks. It’s nostalgic; he hasn’t been to a real café for three years at least. Kent realises then and there how much he missed this. He missed the ambience and the lighting and the cosiness and the friendly, if not slightly stressed baristas, and suddenly he’s a bit emotional.

He queues up behind a middle aged business woman and a couple of sleepy interns and ponders what he should order. _Well_ , he decides, _if I’m going to do this, I’m going to make it fucking count._ He settles on an old, mapley favourite that his ex-girlfriend used to make him whenever he visited Espresso Neat back home. That decided, he pulls out his phone and starts fiddling with it.

The thought that people here in Nevada wouldn’t have the same stuff they had back in New York doesn’t even occur to Kent until he’s rattled off his order and is met with static silence from the barista. He glances up from his phone and - _holy shit_ the barista is really hot. He’s also giving him a dead eyed stare.

“What the fuck?” says hot barista in mildly accented English. Brief concern and confusion flash in his blue, blue eyes. God, those eyes remind Kent of the ice on the lake where he used to play pickup games with his friends.

“Is this how you greet all your customers, or am I just special?” Kent asks, smirking. He wants to see what other expressions look like on this guy’s face. He wants to see what every expression looks like on this guy’s face.

Hot barista pushes back the ebony waves of hair that have spilled over onto his forehead, and Kent wants to reach across the counter and grab hot barista’s arm and push those waves back himself. “I’m a lot nicer when it’s not _eight-fifteen_ in the damn morning and people give me normal coffee orders for things we actually have.” A door behind the guy opens with a bang and Kent nearly jumps when he sees an auburn haired dude who’s covered in flour standing there.

The guy who opened the door runs up and pushes hot barista out of the way. “Oh my god – Jack, you idiot. I don’t know why Smitty decided to give you the morning shift.” So, apparently hot barista’s name is Jack. “Sir – I’m so sorry about my colleague, he’s really not a morning person. What can I get you?”

Why Kent decides to further provoke Jack is beyond even him, but he loves the reaction he gets. “I’ll just have an Americana with coconut milk, since apparently your friend can’t make anything else at _eight-fifteen in the damn morning_ ,” he says, imitating Jack’s cute accent. Jack lets out the most adorable little huff.

The flour covered guy says, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t have coconut milk, but would you be alright with soy or almond?”

What kind of café are they running that they don’t even have coconut milk? Well he guesses he’ll have to settle for almond. And no, Kent doesn’t want any food because he’s frankly feeling slightly nauseous right now and he doesn’t want to vomit during practise. He knows he needs to eat; he is a professional athlete after all, but just not right now. He absentmindedly gives his name when he’s asked and hands over his credit card upon prompting.

The coffee costs him $6.85. There better be sterling silver in that shit for him to want to come back here – even if they have a hot barista named Jack.

Then floury guy makes a choking sound and Kent knows he’s seen the name on the card. Luckily, floury guy is polite enough to not freak the fuck out and instead calmly directs him to the order pickup area.

Kent sighs and leans on the pickup counter, watching his hot barista do his thing with assorted filters and funnels and other shit. And then Jack bends over, presumably to look at how much liquid is in the cup below the funnel, and Kent almost has an aneurism right there. This hot barista has an ass that just won’t quit. Kent cannot physically hold back the whistle he lets out.

“This place has a great view,” he says appreciatively as he proceeds to continue staring at Jack’s ass. The floury guy is saying some shit in response to his comment, and Kent pretends to listen to the guy as Jack pours coffee from a mug into a paper travel cup.

But then Jack catches him staring at his ass, and Kent honest to god panics. He plays it off with his sleaziest grin and gratefully accepts the cup of caffeine goodness that is thrust angrily into his hands.

He takes a tentative sip on his way to the door and freezes. This supposedly normal coffee made at ‘eight-fifteen in the damn morning’ tastes absolutely fantastic. It may not contain sterling silver, but it tastes like an orgasm feels and it was made by a hot barista named Jack who has a damn fine ass.

Kent is so fucked. And he’s so coming back here.

And he just blurts out, “Thanks for the coffee, Jacky boy. I’ll see you tomorrow!” and hightails it to his car.

 

Later, Chaser sees him smiling at nobody with a blue ‘The Daily Grind’ cup in hand and fixes him with the most shit-eatingy of shit-eating grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on Everett Chase (Chaser) who was mentioned in this chapter and will probably keep showing up in other chapters:  
> Everett, or Chaser, as everybody calls him, is(was?) Kent's mentor for his rookie year with the Aces. It was kind of a J. Toews and B. Seabrook situation where they are really close and even lived together. Simply put - Kent flatshared with Everett for his first year on the team.  
> And yes, Chaser does call Kent 'Parsnip'. He's the only one allowed to do that.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! Comments, questions, and suggestions are always warmly met.
> 
> Up next: Jack burns some Kraft Dinner and a stupid type of milk shows up in The Daily Grind's fridges  
> Later: A maple cappuccino is made (A for effort)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a long one. 
> 
> I may have gotten a little carried away.

Jack Zimmerman wasn’t a bad cook, but he wasn’t a good one, either.

“Uncle Jack, is smoke supposed to happen?” asks Maddy, who has been interestedly watching him try to cook so-called ‘mac ‘n’ cheese’ for the past 30 minutes.

“No darling, it’s not,” he sighs, turning off the stove and removing the smoking pot from the heat. What used to be pasta is now black and brown instead of the orange colour it should be, and there’s no liquid left in the whole mixture. “Are you alright with eating the chicken mommy cooked? It was really good.”

“But Uncle Jack,” the toddler whines, “I eated chicken for _lunch_ this week. And I hate chicken.” She crosses her tiny arms across her chest and pouts very seriously from her booster seat at the kitchen table. It would be almost precious if things didn’t end up like this on most of the nights Jack cooked. Something almost always went wrong, whether it be Jack ruining the meal by overcooking or over-seasoning, or Maddy just plain refusing to eat because she didn’t want to try something new. It was quickly becoming exhausting.

“Hate is a very strong word,” he admonishes and dumps the pot containing what is hypothetically Kraft Dinner under a stream of cool water in the sink. Task done, he turns to face his baby girl and lean back against the countertop. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully, “we haven’t had sag paneer in a while. Should we call Mister Patel’s restaurant and see if they’ll make some for us?” Maddy’s pouty face immediately lights up into a clear, beaming smile.

“Sag paneer!”

What a weird kid. Won’t touch chicken if her life depended on it, but give her pureed spinach with goat cheese and she’ll go to town.

Jack reaches for his ancient phone, presses two, and then the call button. Maddy may not biologically be his, but she is the apple of his eye. This means Jack is willing to spend extra money to buy her takeout from the Indian restaurant two buildings down. Especially if it means he doesn’t have to embarrass himself in the kitchen anymore. He places an order for sag paneer and chicken tikka masala because it’s Hope’s favourite. At Maddy’s last minute behest, he asks for some naan as well.

“Do you want to take a short walk and pick up our dinner with me, Mads?” Jack asks.

The little girl jumps off her chair and runs down the hall, presumably to get her shoes. “Yes!” He smiles fondly after her and goes to do the same.

~*~

Maddy insists on holding his hand the whole time they are outside. She won’t even let go when Jack has to pay the poor man at the register for his food, and it ends up that Jack is forced to fumble awkwardly with his wallet as he tries to extract a $20 bill from within the folds. In the end he just hands his wallet over and lets the other guy do it.

It’s a pain in his ass, but Jack enjoys having Maddy’s tiny hand clenched around his much larger pointer and middle fingers. On the way back to the apartment, he briefly closes his eyes and lets himself imagine that she’s his, _really_ his, and that he’s got a wonderful husband who is waiting at home with open arms, ready to scoop up their precious daughter and give Jack a hello kiss. It’s a nice fantasy. Well, while it lasts. Because really, who would want an anxious, fucked-up failure for a boyfriend – or better yet, a husband?

“Are you sad?” asks Maddy when they arrive at the door to the building. She’s doing a perfect imitation of her mother’s puzzled expression, and Jack’s heart just fucking melts.

“No, pumpkin. I’m not sad. Just thinking,” he says. “But I’m very happy that we get to spend time together like this. It’s not often that you go out with your Uncle Jack, is it?” He looks into her golden eyes hazards a little grin.

The face she makes back at him radiates pure contentment. “Nope! But that makes our adventures the funnest. And the specialist.”

“That’s right, pumpkin.”

They ride the rest of the way up silently in the elevator, one of Jack’s hands captured by a much smaller hand and the other curled around a brown paper bag containing plastic jars of exotic smelling Indian food.

Dinner is pretty quiet too, because Maddy puts a lot of concentration into getting her green mush just the way she wants it before shovelling it into her mouth at an alarming speed. Jack is surprised she doesn’t choke, but then again she _is_ eating food with a consistency akin to liquidy porridge. He picks at his own rice and chicken and watches his baby girl more than he actually eats; he figures he’ll wait until Hope comes back.

Maddy goes down easily that night. Jack’s got her washed and brushed and changed within 20 minutes, and she’s in bed at 7:10. He sings her an old French lullaby his mom used to sing to him, and she’s asleep by the fifth verse. When he pads out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen, Hope is standing by the sink and inspecting his failed Kraft Dinner venture.

“Geez Z, I asked you to cook my daughter dinner not cook her a biohazard,” she says jokingly.

“I think she really liked my biohazard. She asked for me to make it again next week.” Hope takes in his serious expression and makes a choking sound. “Nah, I’m just kidding. I called in for Indian food and she got sag paneer.”

Jack momentarily processes Hope’s utter relief and goes to get a plastic takeout container that holds the rest of her chicken tikka out of the refrigerator. “I got you something, too,” he chuckles, plating it up and heating it in the microwave.

She fixes him with a tired smile. “You’re an angel.”

He should really make Tuesday night Indian a thing.

~*~

Steve Garrigan’s voice is already crooning through the speakers by the time Jack pushes through The Daily Grind’s back door. Dan is bustling around, humming and bopping and singing way off key while he kneads the dough for his famous ciabatta. Jack unshoulders his worn messenger bag and puts on his cream coloured apron, folding it down and tying it around his waist. Dan spots him and comes over with a nice big cup of coffee.

“Kodaline?” he asks when he’s given the mug.

“Mhmm.”

“I thought you only listened to Kodaline after bad nights.”

Pleased with the consistency of the ciabatta dough, Dan sets it aside to rise and washes his big hands in the big steel sink. “Yeah,” he says, “but they just released a new album and I really wanted to check it out. Kodaline has good music no matter how I choose to listen to it.”

“Yeah.”

The air of the back kitchen of the café is calm as Jack sucks down the rest of his drink and Dan stirs the big pot of French onion soup that’s just begun to cook on the gas range. Steve Garrigan tells them that about how he used to go drinking in the afternoon and lay around on some grass.

“I should open up out front.”

“You should,” replies Dan. He thrusts something wrapped with tin foil into his hands. “Take this. It’s for Kent Parson - if he stops in today. To apologize for yesterday. Oh, and I picked this up on the way here this morning.” He takes a carton of coconut milk out of the fridge.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Coconut milk?”

“I’m gonna run it by Smitty,” Dan says, a blush dusting his cheeks. “See if he’ll allow us to add it to our stock.”

“You do realize that Kent Parson is the only person who has ever come into The Daily Grind and asked for coconut milk? You’re essentially saying that you want to stock this just because of one semi-famous hockey player.” He shakes the carton of dumb not-actually-milk to emphasize his point.

“… yeah. But Kent Parson is going to be _big_ ; he’s already the top goal scorer on the Aces. Last year was his _rookie year_ , Jack.”

Jack rolls his eyes and shoulders his way into the front of the café. “Whatever.”

~*~

Kent, because he is a little bastard, actually comes back. He’s back and he’s standing in front of Jack and doing his dumb smirking thing again at 8:30 a.m. and Jack is totally not paid enough to deal with this guy’s shit again.

“Maple coffee,” he says, doing a bad imitation of Jack’s accent. “You must be actively trying to poison yourself.”

“Welcome to the Daily Grind Café, what can I get you?”

“Aww, come on Jack. I kind of liked your note… almost as much as I like maple coffee.” Kent waggles his eyebrows in the most ridiculous way and Jack has to stifle a snort.

“Sir, if you aren’t going to order anything, I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises,” he replies in monotone, not betraying anything.

“Yeah, yeah. I want an americano just like yesterday, but I’ll take it for here this time. You make magic coffee, dude.” Kent is already sliding his card across the counter.

“Don’t call me that.” He really wants to punch Kent in the face because there was _strawberry flavouring_ in that coffee he gave him yesterday. Kent Parson likes maple coffee, and, apparently, strawberry coffee.

“Your total is $6.85,” he says for no reason, because Kent already knows that and Jack already has his credit card. He punches in the order with his knuckle. Once Kent has signed his name on the screen, Jack gestures half-heartedly to the room. “You can sit somewhere. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

Instead of curling up in one of the comfortable leather chairs that Jack would oh-so-much like to steal, Kent situates himself on a backless metal barstool and lazily watches his drink being made. This time Jack tries to face forward as much as possible. Although it’s really flattering to have a rich and attractive hockey player checking you out at every available second, it also makes something twist uneasily in his gut.

When he reaches for the strawberry flavouring, Kent goes, “Woah, wait. What are you doing?”

“You drank strawberry coffee yesterday Mr Parson,” he snorts and wisely puts down the flavouring to pour (coconut) milk in instead.

“Okay, first, none of that ‘Mr Parson’ shit. My name is Kent. Or Parse. Take your pick. And second, what possessed you to put strawberry syrup in my coffee? Ooh, is that coconut milk? I really am special, aren’t I?”

“Dan – that’s the guy who you saw yesterday – bought it. He also told be to give you this: ‘As an apology,’ he said.” Jack hands over the thing wrapped in tinfoil.

Kent looks at it and smirks again. “What? Don’t I at least get it put on a plate?”

“Asshole,” he mutters and turns around to fetch the stupid plate. Shit. He has to bend over to reach it.

“Love you too, Jacky,” comes the distracted reply. He can practically feel Kent’s eyes boring holes into his ass cheeks.

“Here.”

Dan’s – whatever it is, is dropped unceremoniously onto the plate and pushed across the counter along with Kent’s coffee. It’s normal this time; there’s no flavouring shit in it today. The bells on the front door signal the arrival of another customer and Jack is ever so grateful for the interruption.

~*~

It’s been 45 minutes and Kent is still there. He’s not even doing anything anymore, just staring at Jack. What is even more awkward is that Hope just started working her shift, and she definitely notices the one blonde customer sitting at the breakfast bar whose eyes trail Jack’s every movement. When Jack asks her to please clear away Kent’s dishes, she raises an eyebrow but does so unquestioningly.

“Is that Kent Parson?” she asks once she has sidled up to him again.

“Yeah.”

“He’s, like, the star point scorer of the Aces, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Kent Parson is ogling you.”

“I know.”

“I think I’m gonna make him a drink.”

“Don’t you dare.”

But Hope already has a paper cup in one hand and a permanent marker in the other, and she’s furiously scribbling something. Jack doesn’t even want to know what she’s writing and instead lets out a long suffering sigh.

"He’s lactose intolerant. Dan bought him coconut milk,” he says. “He also likes weird coffee. Like, maple or strawberry.”

“Shut up. I’m making him a caramel latte.”

Hope’s caramel lattes are the nectar of the gods, and anybody who has ever tried one will attest to that. She’s really trying to make a good impression, then. Jack stays by the iPad, takes peoples’ orders, and pointedly does not look over at what his best friend is doing.

He’s filling an order of five caffe Americanos when he glances over to see Kent grinning at his cup. Hope nonchalantly chasees past him and begins to help the next person in line. Kent pulls out his mobile phone and taps around on it.

A few seconds later, Jack’s left butt cheek vibrates.

**Hey hot stuff, tell your friend that she deserves all the awards in the world for her lattes.**

Oh no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack has only two numbers on speed dial. The first is Hope's and the second is the Indian restaurant's. What a dork.
> 
> Hope is a latte goddess. The coffee just keeps getting weirder. Also, Parse now has Jack's number.
> 
> The Kodaline song that is mentioned playing in the kitchen is called 'Way Back When', and it's one of my favourites from them. Steve Garrigan is the lead singer.
> 
> Comments are love! So are kudos. I'd love to hear from you if you like this story.
> 
> Up next: There is an attempt at a maple cappuccino (a+ for effort)  
> Later: Idk really; I'll think of something


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be really light-hearted and funny, but then something happened and it turned into a really important foreshadowing moment for what Jack does in the future.
> 
> Around two weeks have passed from the last chapter and Kent has been coming in to get coffee every day.
> 
> Happy reading!

“Zimmerman… holy shit - you’re Bob Zimmerman’s son, aren’t you! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

Jack’s mouth goes dry. “It just didn’t seem important,” he says flatly.

“Jack. _Jack._ I play in the fucking NHL, and you’re saying that you being _Bob Zimmerman’s son_ isn’t important?”

“It’s not. I’m not my dad.”

Kent frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, unconvinced.  “No shit. But, like, you were raised by a hockey god, a guy of _legend_. That’s gotta be worth mentioning at some point.”

Jack ignores him and starts to go through the motions of making Kent’s regular order, the one that’s now been burnt into the back of his brain because last Monday he wasn’t in and Hope tried to make it. Apparently, she made it all wrong and Kent bitched to him about it for the rest of the week, and Jack never, ever wants to go through that again.

“Did you ever play?”

“Hockey? Yeah.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“I wasn’t very good,” says Jack, and he’s lying through his teeth. He was a fiend out there on the ice, and everybody used to say that he was so good that he could sign with literally any team he wanted.

“And I wanted to do other things with my life.” That’s another lie, but he can’t tell Kent Parson that he stopped playing because he turned into an anxious wreck and almost OD'd on Atarax. That would just be in bad taste. Kent raises an eyebrow. Two more harried looking customers queue up behind him.

“Like becoming a barista in Las Vegas? Nice aspiration, dude,” he says and Jack suspects he keeps calling him ‘dude’ just to get on his nerves.

He passes the coffee over to Kent. “Stop calling me that. And the barista thing is just a short break while I sort some stuff out. Do you want anything else?”

“... no. One sec, let me just get my card out -” Kent puts down his cup and pulls his wallet from the back of his dark wash, slim cut jeans that flatter his whole lower body and make his thighs look practically edible. “There we go. Here.”

“You’re all set. Good luck at practise today,” says Jack, handing the card back once he’s done with it.

Kent groans as he takes it. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m pretty sure Kissel’s going to make us do tons of suicides today.”

Jack feels stupidly jealous at those words. It isn’t fair that Kent gets to be successful and confident and have a fantastic team while Jack sits on his ass like an injured and confused moose that’s been left to die on the side of the road. He desperately wants the companionship that comes with hockey back; the chirping and the back slapping and the team dinners and the overall feeling of home and _family._ Everybody here at the café is great, but they aren’t hockey. Most days, Jack feels like a puzzle piece forcibly jammed into the wrong place.

He lethargically makes to help the next customer, a middle-aged business man in a charcoal grey suit who is probably having an affair with his boss. “Have fun with that,” he says, and Kent leaves.

An hour later, when the Daily Grind is calm and quiet and Hope is staring down a psychology book in the corner of the bar, Jack’s phone vibrates.

_Message received: 9:55 a.m._

**If it helps, you make the best coffee in all of the west coast.**

_Message sent: 10:00 a.m._

**Stop texting me while I’m at work.**

_Message received: 10:02 a.m._

**Aww jacky dont be like that :((( Im trying to be nice ;) :D**

He smiles at his phone, because never let it be said that Kent Parson isn’t completely ridiculous.

~*~

At 12:30, Jack’s shift is over, and he hangs up his apron and leaves The Daily Grind with Dan. They do lunch together and he’s distracted almost the whole time, only interjecting into Dan’s endless stream of chatter at obligatory moments or to make a random comment about the demented pigeon across the street. Dan doesn’t seem to notice, though, so that’s good. Jack seems normal. Once they’ve finished their sandwiches (on The Daily Grind’s famous ciabatta), he leaves to go back to the café and Jack is left alone with three hours to kill before he has to pick Maddy up from daycare.

The supermarket suddenly seems like a pretty reasonable place to go.

 _We really do need more food_ , he rationalises as he pushes a shopping cart through the produce section of Trader Joe’s and selects a bag of pale gala apples. He glances over to the open fridges lining the walls and wow, those button mushrooms are really calling his name. A package of those gets tossed on top of the bananas without a second thought. Mushroom soup sounds pretty appetizing right now.

Jack makes his way around the store. He always makes sure to re-stock on the necessities before even looking twice at anything else, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when a bottle maple syrup catches his eye halfway through the shopping trip.

Once a common fixture in his life, maple syrup is now such a rarity to even see that Jack almost wants to shout in delight. He hasn’t had it in half a year, at least. It’s eight dollars for a small bottle of the stuff, holy hell, but Jack figures that it’s about damn time he lets himself buy something just because he wants to.

It isn’t until after he’s checked out and loaded down with paper bags that Jack realizes he also somehow bought cinnamon and fucking _coconut milk_ , and that he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake. What the fuck was he going to do with that maple syrup, anyway?

On the bus home he texts Kent because he now has all this shit that he has to find a use for.

**What was that monstrosity you ordered the first time you came in?**

A few minutes later his phone buzzes, signalling a reply.

_Message received: 2:15 p.m._

**Maple cappuccino with cinnamon and lots of froth. Why.**

_Message sent: 2:20 p.m._

**I wanted to tell a friend about your stupid coffee.**

_Message sent: 2:24 p.m._

**They needed to know that you’re not as cool as people think you are.**

Yeah. So now Jack is going to make horrible drinks for an annoying NHL star who has become a regular at The Daily Grind and Jack for some reason tolerates. Lovely. His life has fallen to new lows.

~*~

Maddy is laughing so hard that she almost spits out her juice when Hope walks into the apartment later that night. There is liquid all over the counter and the front of Jack’s shirt is soaking wet. Coconut milk is a bitch and, surprise, surprise, it doesn’t froth.

“My god,” says Hope under her breath. “What happened here?”

“Uncle Jack tried to make a ca-capp… a funny drink,” Maddy replies matter-of-factly. Hope picks up a dishrag on her way to the disaster site and then she sees Jack’s face. There’s a heavy red creeping into his cheeks and his eyes droop guiltily.

In the horrible timing that his life seems to think is funny, his phone lights up on the counter with a text from Kent just as she turns towards it. He snatches it up.

_Message received: 6:16 p.m._

**I got us ice time on sat. I want to prove a point**

_Message received: 6:17 p.m._

**No isnt an acceptable answer unless youre sick or dying**

_Message received: 6:19 p.m._

**Be ready to go at 2**

Hope snickers as she reads over his shoulder. “Oh you poor man,” she says, taking his face in her hands. “He likes you.”

_Message received: 6:22 p.m._

**Shit whats your address. I need to pick you up**

“I’m not telling him where I live,” says Jack, stealing the dishrag from her hands and starting in on the milky mess on the counter.

“You don’t have to. Kent likes you, but he also happens to like my lattes.”

“Kent can’t get to know me through your cup notes, Hope.”

“Then make more of an effort to open up to him,” she says pleadingly. “You need more people in your life than just me and Maddy.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I want to pursue a relationship, any kind of a relationship, with a professional hockey player,” Jack replies quietly, standing up straight and clenching the now sopping rag tightly in his hand. “Too many memories associated with the game. I think I’d end up getting really jealous.”

Hope looks at the half finished cappuccino sitting a few feet away in a chipped mug and makes a sound of disbelief. “Right. Look, I don’t know what happened to you before you came here – and I’m not going to ask – but I think that revisiting hockey might help you get over some of the baggage you’ve been carrying around. Just give it a try.”

Jack looks at the floor. “Okay.”

“Hey, you’ll be fine, Jack,” she says gently, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “Now, I have a paper to write for class. Can you get Maddy to bed tonight?”

“Yeah. It’s no problem.” Maddy cheers from her seat at the table.

“Great, thanks,” says Hope, wrapping her arms around him and enveloping him in a firm hug. Jack lets himself go limp in her embrace before timidly hugging her back. His head drops onto the juncture between her neck and her shoulder and he breathes deeply, inhaling the light scent of the flowery body wash she likes to use. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

He sighs, his eyes closing calmly. “Mhmm.”

A minute of quiet, steady breathing passes by before Hope pulls away and holds him at arm’s length and he makes a noise of comfortable protest.

“You’ll be fine,” she says again.

Jack opens his baby blues and stands frozen for second, then nods. She picks up the mug containing Jack’s maple coffee experiment and sips it, making a face. “Too sweet,” she comments, handing it over to him. Jack tries it, and she’s right. It is too sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to pretend that Jack and Parse never met while playing in the JHL, not beyond a couple of matches where they were on opposing teams. Jack's dad tried to keep the whole overdose thing really quiet, so the media didn't blow up into a giant hockey shitstorm and Kent would never have heard about what happened unless he actively went searching for it on the internet. See: he's suspicious of Jack but doesn't have much to back up his suspicions.
> 
> Also, what happened to Jack after the overdose? Why did he randomly move to Las Vegas? More on that will be revealed in the next chapter.
> 
> Up next: there is an ice rink and Kent's point is proven  
> Later: Chaser is a little fucker


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took such a long time, but school is a bitch and my teachers suddenly decided that homework is, like, super groovy and everybody should be doing lots of it.
> 
> Anyhow, enjoy this awkward chappie, which is full of awkward conversations and very illegal hockey

Holy hell.

Jack is a dad. Jack has an actual tiny human, and it’s standing right in front of him, staring up at him with big brown eyes.

Kent feels like puking into his stupid ‘special made’ maple cappuccino. He sets it down on a side table just inside the door.

Was this why Jack moved out to Las Vegas? Because he’s sorting his life out around a kid? _Holy hell._

“We need to get going,” Jack says to his toddler when he notices Kent’s paling face. “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay Mads?”

“‘Kay,” she says and goes up on her tiptoes, making grabby hands at Jack’s face. “Hugs,” she demands very authoritatively, and Kent would find it incredibly cute if Maddy weren’t Jack’s fucking _surprise kid_.

Jack laughs softly and gives in, kneeling down to his daughter’s level and pulling her into his arms. Kent can’t help but admire the way his grey button down pulls taut across his broad shoulders as they wrap around his kid. When he pulls away, he says, “Tell mommy I’ve gone out, yeah? Bye pumpkin.”

Maddy just nods and then turns around and toddles back into the apartment, disappearing into another room. “Shall we?” asks Jack, gesturing towards the stairwell down the hall. Kent, not trusting himself enough to speak yet, just nods. They venture out to Kent’s Merc in stilted silence.

Finally, when Jack has settled into the passenger seat and Kent’s hands are clenched around his black, leather covered steering wheel, he says, “She seems like a nice kid.”

Jack hums in agreement, pushing dark waves of hair off of his forehead. “She’s the light of my life… most days.”

Kent nods stiffly, and, after a few more awkward seconds of silence, starts the engine. Fuck, he can do this; he can still take Jack skating. It’ll just be - buddies. It’ll be buddies.

The engine purrs.

Jack coughs. “Nice car. Mercedes, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“So is your nice car the point you wanted to prove, or are we going somewhere in it?”

“...shit. Sorry. Yeah.”

He shifts the car into reverse and backs out of the parking lot. The unfamiliar scenery of slightly sketchier Las Vegas unsettles him as the Mercedes flies though the city. He’s not used to this area, that’s all. Jack can handle himself fine where he lives right now, there’s no need to be concerned.

They’re driving for about fifteen minutes with no conversation before Kent blurts out, “How old is she?”

Fuck him, this was not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be charming and witty so that Jack would agree to go out for dinner at Zinc and then maybe go home with him later. Instead, Jack’s looking out the window with that creepy laser focused stare of his, and Kent keeps shooting himself in the metaphorical foot by asking Jack about the daughter he apparently has.

“Maddy?” Jack asks, not taking his eyes off the passenger side window. “She’s two. Mentally five.”

“That’s - that’s nice. You’re - uh - really good with her. From what I saw. She’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

“Kent,” says Jack, wincing.

“You’re, like, so young, too.” Shit. Now he’s just word vomiting, and he can’t stop. “I don’t know how you do it; I’d probably fuck off or something, you know? It’s like - fuck do I know about kids? I think I get why you said you wanted to sort some stuff out. Kids are - holy hell, man.”

“Kent,” Jack says again, doing the laser staring thing at him. “Kent, _shut up_.”

Kent’s mouth snaps shut so quickly that he can hear his teeth smashing against one another.

“Maddy’s not - she’s not my kid,” says Jack slowly, as if fishing for words. “Hope’s yeah, but not mine.”

“Oh.”

Jack lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think the dad thing is going to happen anytime soon, anyway.”

“So you and Hope, you’re not...?”

“God no. That’s… no. No. Never happening. Not with any girl.”

They’ve arrived at the rink, and Kent pulls into a parking space and stops the car, finlly able to look over and direct his full attention towards his maybe-hopefully date. Even though Jack hasn’t explicitly admitted anything, it still feels like a huge weight has been lifted off of Kent’s shoulders. “Good. Great,” he says. “That’s great.”

Jack watches him closely. “Are you -”

“Bi. Publically, too.”

“Wow... So… any reason we’re at the Kraft Arena?”

“Yes, actually,” replies Kent. “I’m proving my point. And you’re not allowed to say no because I practically sold myself into Kissel-slavery for the rest of the preseason to get us private ice time.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “At the Kraft Arena?”

Kent shrugs, smiling cheekily. “What can I say? I try to impress. Are you impressed?”

“I don’t have any skates,” Jack deadpans.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. There are different sizes of skates for your to try on, but I had to do some guesstimating on the rest of the gear.”

“Sorry, the rest of the gear? Kent, I’m not playing hockey with you.”

Kent clucks his tongue. “Kissel-slavery,” he repeats nonchalantly. “Not allowed to say no.”

“Fucking - fine. Let’s go,” says Jack, pulling on the Merc’s door handle and stepping out into the blistering heat.

“And just think,” Kent says, following after him. “You can phone home to your hockey god dad and tell him you had practise with Kent Parson at the Kraft Arena.”

“Yeah, because I was kidnapped,” Jack says flatly. “I’m not phoning home.”

Kent joggs ahead of him to the entrance of the arena. “Oh my god, but your dad would be so proud. You’re going back to your Canadian roots! And it’s not kidnapping if you consensually get in the car, Jacky boy,” he retorts, holding open the door once Jack reaches him. Jack just pushes past, a constipated look on his face, and doesn’t offer any reply. “Geez, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“Your cat.”

“No! Not Parse junior!” Kent wails, lifting a mock grieving hand to his forehead.

“Parse junior?” Jack snorts. “How fucking vain, man.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m totally going to get a cat and name it Parse junior.”

“You should call it ‘Shithead’ if you’re so set on naming it after yourself.”

“I should call it ‘Killjoy;’ name it after you,” says Kent, childishly sticking out his tongue. They get to the dressing room and Kent stops, goes inside, and flicks on the fluorescent lights. “This is us.”

“Killjoy has a nice ring to it,” Jack shrugs, his statement almost an afterthought. He surveys his new surroundings and lets out a low whistle. Jack has probably seen quite a few dressing rooms in his life and Kent practically lives in this one during the season, even he has to admit it’s a pretty fucking sleek place. Right now it’s void of all equipment except for two giant bags and a line of skates neatly hung up above the cubby labelled **#90 Kent Parson**.

Kent points to them. “Those are for you. I forgot to ask what size you are, so I just brought as many as I could. Your pads are in there - they should fit okay - and, uh, here’s your stick. Gift from the guys.”

He hands him the bright orange and grey distraction that Chaser practically blackmailed him into buying. Kent’s teammates had stolen it and scrawled lewd notes in black sharpie all along the shaft, even taping it in hot pink and then signing the tape.

Jack takes one look at it and bursts out laughing. He relieves Kent of the offending hockey stick and quietly reads a few of the messages, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “This is rich,” he says finally, a soft look in his eyes.

“Hey, the guys don’t even know who you are and they already love you; that’s a good sign,” says Kent, taking off his dress shirt and tossing it carelessly onto one of the cubbies.

“They love the idea of me. Especially this ‘Chaser’ guy. _Hey babe,”_ he reads, _“ring me up if you ever have a lonely night._ Aw look, he’s left his number underneath.”

“Fucking Chaser,” Kent grumbles as he tugs a tight, dry-fit shirt over his head. He’s going to slowly murder Everett Chase for pulling shit like that. “Don’t get any ideas; he’s got a fiancé at home. Even kicked me out of the house because of her.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because he couldn’t stand your ugly mug anymore?” Jack leans the gaudy stick against **#90 Kent Parson** and grabs a few pairs of skates from the top, humming when he finds the right size.

“Nah, he wanted to propose to her and he didn’t want the ex-rookie walking in on them once she’d moved in. I’m actually kind of grateful. Nobody wants to see them fucking. That’s nasty.”

“I mean, if he invited me…” Jack muses, sliding his elbow pads on and glancing pointedly at the dumb hockey stick.

Actually, slow murder doesn’t even begin to describe what Kent is going to do to Everett Chase the next time he sees him. Hot jealously surges through his blood and burns red just underneath his skin. Jack is _his,_ for Chaser to just disregard these crystal clear sentiments - however jokingly - makes him well up in (very unjustified) anger. Kent pulls his Aces practice sweater on over all of his shit and sits down in **#46 Riley van Dijk** with his skates and forcefully pulls them on. He breathes deeply while lacing himself up; it’s always been a somewhat therapeutic action, and now is no exception. He’s calming down quickly.

“Hurry the fuck up, Zimms,” he says once he’s done. “We don’t have all day for you to get your giant ass in gear.”

~*~

Kent lazily watches Jack toe carefully at the ice while he skates laps around the rink. Jack’s got this tense frown on his face that makes him appear extremely uncomfortable; as if his feet will suddenly fly out from underneath him the second he puts his full weight on it.

What a fucking weird guy.

What a fucking cute guy, though. Damn. Kent really made the right decision when he bought a replica of  Bob Zimmerman’s Pens sweater for this little impromptu practise. Jack didn’t look too happy when he first saw it, but put it on with nothing more than a hard glint in his eyes and a grimace. For a moment, Kent wondered what the hell went on between Jack and his dad to make him act like that, but that thought was quickly obliterated and replaced by _Oh my god what a hottie I’d tap that so fucking hard shut up Kent Parson or you’re never going to make it to the ice._

“Come on, Jack! You weren’t lying when you said you played hockey, were you?!” he calls from the other edge of the rink, stopping and leaning against the sideboards.

Jack seems to steel himself then, stepping fully out onto the pristine sheet of offseason ice and gingerly pushing his blades against it. What surprises Kent the most is how natural Jack looks after such a supposedly long time away from hockey - it’s like he’s been living on it his whole life. The guy doesn’t even falter, just steadily gains speed until he’s skating along at a steady pace. The tension that had built up in his neck and shoulders while they were in the dressing room dissipates easily as he flies along the edges of the rink.

The longer Kent watches, the more he thinks Jack looks just like his dad.

After a few minutes of warmup-that-won’t-do-shit, he picks up his hockey stick and says, “Okay Zimms; grab your’s and let’s see what you can do.”

~*~

Jack visibly doesn’t put his all into their game. He purposely misses Kent’s passes and makes shots go wide, and Kent starts to get incredibly irritated that this fucker won’t fucking _try_ ; won’t do shit that he obviously can and won’t even fucking defend himself. What he is doing, though, is trying to pull off an apathetic, I’m-so-shitty-at-this vibe. It’s pointless, and Kent can see right through his stupid facade.

So finally, when Jack basically hands him the puck for the hundredth time, Kent pushes his ass out and slams him backwards against the boards. It’s a shit move, especially when he promised himself that he wouldn’t do any checking today, but he can’t take it anymore.

The hollow slam of Jack’s body hitting glass echoes around the deserted Arena.

“Fucking try, asshole. Be better,” Kent says through gritted teeth, squishing Jack further against the sideboards. His barista-cum-opponent grunts in surprised pain, but when Kent glances back, there’s fire in Jack’s eyes and he knows that he’s tripped a wire.

“Watch what you say, shithead,” Jack growls, and he viciously jabs the butt of his stick into Kent’s spine, making him pitch forward. There’ll be no more mercy today.

After that, they play incredibly dirty. Kent gets tripped at least three times and slashed countless more. He’s taken so many checks and falls that it’ll be a wonder if his whole person doesn’t turn into one giant bruise tomorrow. Their game is close, but by the time 4:30 rolls around and their ice time ends, Jack is the clear winner. True to Kent’s original hypothesis, Jack finished out their pickup game with two more points and a relatively nonplussed expression.

Kent finally feels like he’s proven his point when he’s standing naked under the hot spray of one of the Aces’ showers and reflecting on the previous two hours. Jack was so good that he might as well have been a hockey prodigy.

Obviously there was something very not right that made him stop.

~*~

“Dinner?”

“Sorry?”

“Dinner, Jack. Are you hungry?” says Kent, facing Jack as best he can from behind the wheel of a sedan sized car.

“Yeah. Starving.”

“Do you want to go out somewhere?”

“I promised Maddy that I’d be home to eat with her,” Jack says, before tacking on another, “Sorry,” at the end. “Maybe some other time?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

They drive for a while in a companionable quiet, the radio softly humming out latin music. Jack is staring out the window again, this time with a dumb little grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and Kent feels like his heart is going to burst.

Okay, so maybe the checking thing wasn’t supposed to happen, but he’s made Jack so happy that nothing else matters right now.

And when they get back to Jack’s shitty apartment complex, Jack reaches across the center console and hugs him tight, murmuring a small, “Thanks for today,” by his ear. Kent responds with the biggest, most ridiculous smile and it makes Jack snort.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says as Jack extricates himself from the car.

“Yeah. I’ll tell the girls you say ‘hi.’”

“Thanks.”

~*~

When Kent sits down at his breakfast bar with a plate of reheated leftovers later that night, the condo seems much lonelier than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo...  
> I feel really hungry after writing about hockey practise at the Kraft Arena.
> 
> Also, we meet Riley van Dijk (if only in name), and we learn that Chaser is engaged.
> 
> Up next: Whoa-ho it's Everett Chase and co.  
> Later: That dinner happens


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quietly places chapter down*
> 
> ... whoops

“UNCLE JACK!” Maddy shrieks when she hears the lock click open. The patter of excited little feet sound down the hallway and Jack has just barely gotten through the door before he’s being tackled by a two-year-old bundle of energy.

“Hey girlie. Did you have a nice time while I was gone?” he asks, kneeling down to her level and letting himself be climbed on.

“Boring,” she says. “Mommy did college stuff. Didn’t let me watch TV.”

Jack manoeuvres Maddy onto his back, and she clasps her little hands around his neck to hold on for a piggyback ride. “TV’s not any good for you anyways. Where _is_ your mommy?”

“I’m in here!” Hope calls from the kitchen, and sticks and arm out for good measure. He follows the arm in, Maddy still clinging to his back.

“It’s mac’n’cheese and peas tonight; I hope that’s okay,” she says. “Maddy was extra fussy today, so I figured I’d make her favourite to try to placate her.”

“That’s fine,” he says, even though he’ll probably have to make himself a whole other meal to go along with dinner. He hasn’t been this hungry since his time at Shattuck Saint Mary’s, and he could probably eat everything in the refrigerator right now, relish and all. Maddy squirms impatiently on his back and he lets her down.

“Alright, miss Maddy,” says Hope. “Time for dinner. Let’s wash our hands. And what colour plates do you want tonight?”

“Pink!” cries the toddler, who then toddles off to the bathroom sink.

And that’s how Jack finds himself inhaling Kraft dinner from a pink plastic plate while already thinking about what else he can shove down his throat that isn’t carbohydrate. His peas get mixed in with the pasta and Maddy has this grossed out and affronted look on her face; as if Jack has committed some grave Kraft dinner sin. Hope just sits there and smirks at him knowingly.

“Have fun?” she asks.

Jack doesn’t even look up from his plate, just hums his assent.

“I bet. You were really hungry, huh?”

“Mhm. Hockey.”

And then all of the food is gone from his plate and Jack stares at it in bafflement, willing more food to appear. Hope makes this – fucking displeased, what? – noise, and Jack starts to process that she wasn’t talking about dinner.

“But I thought - wait - why the ffheck would he make you play hockey on your first date?”

Date? What the hell? “That wasn’t a date, Hope. He was trying to prove some sort of point. What that point was, well, your guess is as good as mine,” he says.

“Yeah, but why hockey?”

“I told him I used to do it,” says Jack, gracefully deciding to leave out the part about how his dad is Bob Zimmermann, Bad Bob, White ‘em out Willy, etc. “He probably just thought it would be something to bond over.” Even to his ears, that excuse sounds pathetic.

“Sure. Because Kent Parson suddenly decides he wants to ‘bond’ over his profession with a random barista,” Hope snarks back. After a pause she adds, “Z, do you honestly believe that he pays seven dollars for coffee every day just because it tastes good? He’s rich, but he’s not stupid.”

Luckily, Jack doesn’t have to reply to that because Maddy chooses that exact moment to declare loudly that she’s, “Done and very bored,” and that she wants a bath and then a story.

“I’ll get her,” he tells Hope, and makes his escape with a brown haired little girl attached to his body. Hope shoots him back a very pointed look and makes it crystal clear that she knows he’s avoiding the subject.

~*~

Bath time and stories only last so long, though, and it’s all too soon before Jack is back in the kitchen looking for something else to eat. Kraft dinner did little to quell his hunger. Hope is still there, leaning against the countertop expectantly.

“J-”

“So Maddy tells me you did some classes today,” he cuts in, sticking his head in the fridge. “How’s your degree going?”

She sighs. “It’s going fine, I think. I figured today would be a good day to catch up on classes – you know, do something productive for myself while you did something productive with Kent. Turns out I was the only one doing something productive.”

He makes a noise and side-steps the obvious insinuation that they’re going to talk about Kent and instead asks, “Tell me again which University you’re taking classes from?”

“Downs College.”

Jack pulls out a container of leftover chicken Marsala. “Where’s that?” he asks, because what the fuck is Downs College? He’s never heard of the place before.

“It’s a tiny private college out in Laurelton, Massachusetts,” she says.

He plates up his food, sticks it in the microwave, and says, “Massachusetts? That’s a bit far away, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but Downs’s got one of the best psychology programs in the country. And it’s the sister school to a bigger university, so I guess I could say I’m taking classes from Samwell, too.”

The microwave beeps and the food is retrieved. “Interesting,” says Jack airily, grabbing a fork and beginning to shovel chicken and capers into his mouth. Hope wisely realises that this is the end of their conversation and goes to wash the dishes in the sink.

~*~

It’s not like he really needs them right now, but habits are habits - even if they’re bad ones.

And addictions are addictions, too, he supposes.

His mind starts to go numb. At least he can blame it on how wound up he is.

Too bad it’s not Atarax.

~*~

Jack doesn’t see Kent ‘tomorrow,’ because tomorrow is Sunday and Jack doesn’t have to work Sundays. He doesn’t see Kent, but boy does he feel him. Jack is sure that his back will be incredibly dead from all the checking and slashing and mock fights of yesterday’s little adventure on the ice.

Nevertheless, he decides his body is aching in only the best way possible; it feels like he’s back at Shattuck, just woken up after a particularly gruelling practise and ready to take on another one today. He lets himself laze around on his stomach for a while, bathed in a ray of weak sunlight that’s slipping through a slit in his maroon curtains. When he turns onto his back, his soft grey t-shirt rides up a little and exposes a black-blue bruise blooming over his right hip. Jack makes a soft sound and pulls the shirt higher until it’s bunched up above his pecs and straining under his armpits. The rest of his stomach and the bottom of his ribs are littered in similar bruises, and he suddenly feels as if he’s been bulldozed. Fuck. He looks wrecked.

He knows he shouldn’t, but Jack still lets his hands release their hold on his shirt to slide down his chest and onto his tummy, tracing the black and blue smears covering his pale skin. His right hand hovers over the bruise on his hip when it reaches it, and Jack hesitates a moment before smashing the heel of his palm right into the centre. Pain comes to him in a dull throb – not much of anything really – but Jack’s eyes still slip closed and his head still rolls back. Kent had elbowed him there, he remembers, as he was falling backwards from a thwarted check. He lets out a low groan and presses the bruise harder, biting his lip.

Fuck. He’s so fucked. There’s a toddler and his best friend in the room right down the hall, and these walls aren’t as thick as they maybe could (or should) be.

His left hand finds a bruise high on his ribs and jabs that one, too, and Jack’s breath hitches. Kent had slashed him there – with a high stick, even. Jack thinks about how he’d landed his ass on the ice after that, staring up at Kent in stunned wonderment while the blonde had simply smirked down at him. Jack’s right hand slips the centimetres long journey from his hip to the waistband of his sweatpants, and he manages to catch himself before his deceitful fingers can actually get underneath.

He really shouldn’t. Really, no, but…

Jack christens his bed for the second time in the eight months he’s been living here with Hope. He sprawls out afterward, illuminated by a strengthening patch of Las Vegas sunlight and wonders not for the first time what the fuck he’s doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that went unexpected places.
> 
> Also, White 'em out Willy. (This is assuming Bad Bob's given name is William, because Bob is for some reason a feasible nickname for William.) (Also, secret stripper name, much?)
> 
> Comments are love!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. We meet some people. Yeah.
> 
> Enjoy.

There’s an orange and grey monstrosity waiting for him just inside the kitchen of the Daily Grind: one that’s decorated in bright pink tape and covered in the black scribbles of the entirety of the Las Vegas Aces. Oh. Yeah.

Dan is staring at it, his eyebrows knotted in confusion and cheeks pinked with wonder. It’s the kind of look he only gets when he’s seen or talked to somebody who holds a high position in his life. Like Smitty. Except not, because Smitty is a huge dork.

Dan glances away from the hockey stick when Jack throws open the backdoor and carelessly dumps his bag into a little wooden cubby and grabs his apron. Everything Everything drones in the background.

“So, Everett Chase came knocking ‘round here at seven o’clock this morning with that,” Dan points to the stick, “thing, placed it in my hands, told me to give it to ‘Jack’ when he got in. Then he winked at me and said he’d be back later.”

Jack looks emotionlessly at his co-worker just to fuck with him, and then snatches the hockey stick from where it stands leaned into a corner. He runs his fingertips down the shaft and scans all of the dumb notes the players have written to him, all of the signatures and the numbers.

“I forgot this,” he says, but offers no more explanation.

“Okay, yeah, it’s no big deal that my friend is secretly good buddies with the entirety of the Aces, the team I’ve worshiped ever since the NHL decided to fucking expand into Las Vegas, whatever. I don’t care. What are you doing today? I’m baking.”

“ _No way_ ,” says Jack, putting the stick back down. “I’m gonna open up in the front. Have fun with your bread.”

“Yeah, give Kent Parson more time to stare at your ass!” Dan calls after him. When he sees Jack’s neck turn pink he adds, “You know he does it; don’t act so surprised!”

“Fuck you.”

“Later, hotstuff. I’ll make sure you’re no longer a blushing virgin.”

“You’re full of shit.” He rolls his eyes and leaves Dan to his flour and his ovens and goes to open up shop.

Dan did make a good point between his heaps of shit, though. Kent stares at Jack’s ass constantly, and he’ll often sit at his place at the bar longer than a cup of coffee justifies just to watch. It’s not even distracting anymore, just irritating. And if he’s being honest with himself, the staring makes him kind-of uncomfortable. He’d gotten it in school, obviously: he was locally famous for having quote ‘the finest ass north of the equator,’ but something about the way Kent looks at him is vastly different. It’s lustful – what else is new – and intent, and when Jack turns to glare him down, he responds with an insolent little smirk, as if he’s entitled to the view. And, well, Jack is allowed to have fantasies, but the reality remains that Kent has been little more than a pushy, persistent asshole for the month or so that they’ve known each other.

That doesn’t stop the traitorous ball of heat that’s been curled low in Jack’s belly constantly for the past twenty four hours, and the long term anticipation of that stupid, self-entitled smirk every morning. It’s dangerous territory, especially because he knows anything related to a hockey player will only end in heartache. Kent Parson is a temptation, a recipe for Jack’s destruction.

~*~

Jack meets Kent’s first two of teammates like this:

It’s 8:30 a.m., and a couple of guys stride into The Daily Grind with Kent sulkily hanging back behind them. The taller of the two, who has hair the colour of rose gold and blue marble eyes is talking loudly and animatedly to the shorter one, who has a four-day beginning of a beard and whose brown eyes are so dark that they appear to almost absorb his irises. The taller one looks towards the register where Jack is helping a harried intern and a brilliant smile lights up his face, which makes his eyes scrunch up. Tall guy elbows beard guy and Kent visibly deflates, and that makes Jack snort, which in turn makes tall guy start to laugh.

“Jack, babe!” yells tall guy, and Kent looks like he wants to die. “You never called!”

“Shut up Chaser,” says Kent. “I _will_ kill you.”

So this is Everett Chase.

The intern turns around, sees the three Aces members, and becomes a fish. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly and she looks at Jack questioningly. He just shrugs and pours her 11 black Café Americanos. When the paper cups of coffee are precariously stacked in the intern’s arms, Jack addresses tall guy, _Everett_ , for the first time.

“Not interested,” he says dryly, dismissively. “And you have a fiancé.”

“She’s open to new ideas,” says Chaser, and holy hell, it this guy even real?

The intern, who now has her hand on the door handle, chokes and almost drops all of the coffees. Kent looks like he wants to maul something, so Jack figures he’ll just roll with it and keep being annoying.

“Well,” he says, “when you put it like that… do Thursdays work for you?”

Everett lets out a long laugh and beard guy chuckles next to him. “Oh Parse, you really know how to choose ‘em,” says Everett. “I like him, yeah. He’s great.”

“So what’ll it be for you guys, today? Kent? You want your regular?”

“Regular?” Everett asks, wiggling his eyebrows. Kent’s eyes widen and he shakes his head no, don’t do it.

“Oh yeah, Kent likes his maple cappuccinos,” Jack says conspiratorially, leaning over the counter. If he’s going to shamelessly give Kent’s teammates prime chirping material, and he may as well make it good. “He also likes it when his drink is heated to exactly 83.6 degrees Celsius and sometimes he’s in the mood for strawberry flavouring, too.”

“Oh my god,” says Everett at the same time beard guy says, “Oh good, another Celsius guy. Where’re you from?”

“Quebec.”

“Cool, I’m from Ontario. Name’s Jeff O’Hare, but some people call me Hairy. Good to meet you, man,” says beard guy, extending his hand. Jack shakes it, and Kent and Everett squabble in the background like children.

“Jack. Ehm, Laurent. Jack Laurent.” They look at each other for a second and Jack flounders for a topic before finally settling on good old hockey. “So, Leafs or Sens?”

“Uh, Sens?”

“Wait, never mind. This friendship won’t work out,” he says dismissively, flipping his hand in Jeff’s face and turning around.

“Fuckin’ Habs,” Jeff grumbles, and Jack smirks.

“Nah, I’m just kidding. I don’t really give a shit about the Habs anymore.” He doesn’t know how much Kent told his team mates about him, but either way he’s not going to explain why he doesn’t follow his home team.

“Hey, speaking of the Habs, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Bob Zimmermann? And I think his son’s name was even –”

“So, coffee?” Everett unwittingly interrupts, apparently done chirping Kent. “I’ll just do black. And Kent wants his regular, because I need to see that. Jeff?”

“Do you have green tea?”

Jack smirks. “Jasmine or Oolong?”

“Jasmine is fine, thanks. I’ll pay, guys.”

Kent looks like he wants to fight him, but Everett just shrugs and comments about, “Hey, free drinks,” as if they’re not guys with literal million-dollar contracts.

Jack rings up the orders and Jeff hands over his card and asks for a vanilla scone, not even reacting to the exorbitant amount of money he’s spending on two coffees and a tea. Kent, meanwhile, takes his normal place at the bar and stares at Jack’s ass moodily as Jack makes their drinks and hits it off with his newfound friend. They don’t talk about Bob Zimmermann or the Habs again.

Conversation with Jeff is easy in a way that it hasn’t been in a long time. Jack is opening up to the Aces’ alternate captain fairly quickly, filled with the rare instinct of _friend_ and _safe_. Jeff is a chill guy, and would probably be a great listener if Jack ever decided to sit down and talk serious shit with him. He’s got a wife and two little girls at home, whom he promises he’ll bring in sometime. And even though Jack never mentions much of anything about himself, Jeff’s oddly perceptive and always considerate; avoiding subjects at the slightest hint that the other is uncomfortable. So that’s how, after he’s placed coffee and tea down in front of three pivotal Aces members, he ends up staring at a napkin with Jeff O’Hare’s number on it and a simple, _I’m always free to talk, man._

~*~

“So you got the stick, right? You weren’t molested too badly?”

“Yeah Kent, I got it. It was fine. Everett found Dan instead of me, though.”

“Okay. Uh… look, I’m sorry about Chaser and Hairy,” says Kent, the corners of his lips pulling downwards. “They, uh, kind of showed up at my house and shoved me in Chaser’s car half awake.”

For the first time since Jack has met him, he looks genuinely reproachful, and the irony of the situation is almost so sad it’s funny. Of all the times he could have used that pouty little frown, he chooses the one that Jack has not been genuinely annoyed or hot-headed for most of the time.

“Good,” Jack says. “Now you know what it felt like to me.”

“Hey! Calling shit on that right now! I didn’t coerce you into a car at ass o’clock on a Monday morning like they did,” Kent replies indignantly, flapping his arms about like an angry baby.

“Wow, ‘coerce.’ That’s a big word there, eh?”

“You – shut up, jackass.”

“Thought my name was Killjoy.” Jack turns away to face the back counter and pretend to wash utensils in the sink. “Anyway, it’s all the same. You blew up my phone – and my plan, mind you – just to get me to go skating with you. It’s not like I had a choice if I wanted you to stop bothering me.”

He gets no reply to that, but he doesn’t let it stop him from aggressively rinsing out a cup and grabbing a damp tea towel to wipe down the countertops. When he turns back around, towel in hand, Kent is looking at him with sad eyes and a blank face. The expression looks all wrong on him, and it’s a little heart breaking. But that is neither here nor there, and Jack won’t - _can’t_ let it get to him.

He starts scrubbing at splotches of spilled drinks and ignores the blonde until Kent asks quietly, almost tentatively, “Do I really bother you?”

Jack freezes. His hand jerks to a stop and clutches the towel. Shit. Fuck, _shit_.

“No,” he admits finally. It’s the truth, God help him. He sighs and relinquishes his hold on the wet piece of cloth, straightening up to look at Kent. “Not really.” Kent makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and Jack’s stomach clenches.

“But you do text me way too often,” he continues. “And you’re kind of an ass sometimes.”

“How can I make it up to you?”

“I really don’t-”

Kent holds his hand up to Jacks face and brow knoted up with a determined ‘ _I can fix this, but I’m also thinking very hard’_ look. A few seconds of stilted silence ensue.

“Fine. Dinner,” Jack blurts out with an air of finality. Fuck, he’s a masochist, isn’t he? “I did promise you we’d do dinner sometime.”

“Look, I don’t want you to feel obligated, Jack. I mean, I was the one who picked dinner, so you should pick something that you like and I won’t get involved – ”

Jack places a steadying hand on Kent’s forearm and says with the calmest tone he can muster, “Kent. Dinner is fine.”

“Okay, yeah. Dinner is good. Cool. So, when are you free to do this?”

“Ehh, well, the earliest evening I’m free would be Thursday.”

“Thursday, got it, Awesome. I’ll text you the details.”

“Sure, yeah.”

Kent glances at his watch, and his whole posture changes. “Shit, I gotta go, sorry. Practise and all; can’t be late.”

“ _Okay_ , Kent. Just go.”

~*~

_Message Received: 21:39 p.m._

**Reservation for 7:45 at Zinc. Be ready by 7**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeff O'Hare is going to be really good for Jack, I think.
> 
> Any questions? Comments? Suggestions? There's a box for that down below, and it'd be really cool if you used it ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chappie is now up
> 
> Happy reading!

He should have seen the meltdown coming: all the signs were there.

Thursday begins no differently than any other day of the week, except that Jack knows he’s going out for food (and maybe drinks) tonight with Kent. As the day goes on, a growing puddle of blackness burns in his chest, making his body feel tight and his muscles stiff. He wants to jump out of his skin by the time his shift ends at the cafe, and Jack finally gives in and admits that he’s actually pretty nervous. Last Saturday at the rink was great, he hasn’t felt that relaxed in ages, but the rink was a place he understood; it was home. And if the rink was home, then a restaurant might as well be Saturn. Instead of running each other into the boards and trading keyed up insults on the ice, they’ll be sitting at an actual table and making (or attempting to make) civilized conversation. The thought makes his stomach turn.

And Zinc. Jack’s never heard of the place before. He doesn’t know what to wear, what cuisine they serve there, or even where it’s located. Kent has been really sketchy on the details in that respect. He resolves to borrow Hope’s laptop and look the place up before he has to get ready to go, but first he _really_ needs to go for a run when he gets home to blow off some steam.

~*~

Jack hasn’t gone running in two months at least, hasn’t visited the gym or maintained any kind of exercise regimen since he stopped playing hockey, so when he gets winded at two kilometres he almost starts reevaluating his life choices. The distance he did manage to make has helped to take the edge off of his nervousness, though, and his chest doesn’t feel quite as tight as it did when he left The Daily Grind. He’ll count that as a win.

He takes a break halfway down a city block - he doesn’t know which - and lets himself catch his breath, bent over with his hands balanced against his knees. The stifling Las Vegas air doesn’t help; it just dries out his lungs more and makes his trachea feel like somebody is running rough grain sandpaper down its walls. Jack is panting fairly hard, something he’s unaccustomed to doing after what was by all intents and purposes a little bit of light exercise. He has to get back into the habit of exercising more often; probably find a cheap gym where he can lift weights. And maybe he can even find a public rink: teach Maddy to skate and practise his own stickhandling if there’s stick and puck time.

The walk back to the apartment is leisurely, and he even feels fine when the sun mercilessly beats down the back of his arms and neck. This is something Jack hasn’t done in a while either, letting himself stroll and just enjoy the fact that he’s _alive_ and kicking. For the first time in a little over a year, he opens up his senses and allows himself to take in everything around him, all of the sensations of this desert city and in the nature around him. He’s gross and sweaty and not in as good shape as he used to be, but his thoughts are actually slowing down, calming and separating into somewhat organized compartments for once. It’s a more than agreeable feeling, and the intense acrid burning that had ravaged his chest earlier today has become a minor annoyance by the time he gets back home an hour later.

 

~*~

**Downs College**

**About Downs    Academics    Admission    The Consortium    Contact Us**

_(your session has expired)_

Jack scrubs a hand through his damp hair. Okay… hmm… new tab. Wait. This is Downs College. This is Hope’s school; the one she mentioned having a partnership with some other place. Well now is interest has been piqued (and his jealousy, to be honest), and it’s not like he’s got anything to do until seven seeing as Hope’s out with Maddy for the rest of the day.

**The Consortium**

“The consortium agreement has offered me the experiences of a small, close-knit college and a larger, more diverse university all at once. Now I have tons of good friends and connections from three universities instead of one.” - _Tom Loweman, Economics Major_

**Downs College is proud to be part of a consortium with two other local liberal arts universities: Queen Mary University in Rockaway and Samwell University in Samwell. Students can take courses at either school and earn class credits that will count towards their overall degree. This gives them the opportunity to elect to take classes that are not traditionally offered here at Downs and interact with other professors and students.**

**Each course...**

Samwell. That was the place that Hope was talking about: the bigger sister school. Jack has no idea what he’s doing at this point - he actually does have to look up the Zinc place, and there’s no reason for him to be reading about college - but it’s like he’s Alice falling down the rabbit hole. He clicks the link to Samwell’s web page and begins to investigate.

Two and a half hours later, Jack hasn’t looked up Zinc, chosen what he’s going to wear, or even put on a shirt. He _has_ learned a ton of useless facts about Samwell University; like how there’s a club called ‘Samwell Athletes and Allies’ (cool, right? awesome) and how they’ve got a division one hockey team. And he has, like, maybe a little more than an hour left to do all his stuff so that he’ll be ready to go out 15 minutes beforehand.

 

~*~

After a quick search of ‘Zinc Las Vegas, Jack finds out the restaurant’s fancier than he originally thought it would be, and thinks what clothing he owns that would substantiate at least the bare minimum appropriate attire. He hasn’t got dress pants, didn’t think he’d need them when he ran away and sure as hell doesn’t need them in his current life, and he also doesn’t have a button down shirt for much the same reason. He does, however, have a relatively nice pair of black jeans and a slim-cut polo the colour of the forests he used to go hiking in with his family over the summer. He can match that with a his brown balmorals* and he’ll be set to go. It’s not a suit and tie, but it’ll do.

As he dresses, he stupidly lets his thoughts drift, and they decide to land on university of all things. Jack always knew that he wouldn’t go even if he didn’t have his ‘little episode’ (as his dad called it); he would have been draft eligible when he was older, and he’d have skipped college to play for whatever team signed him. Now that he’s fled from home, quit school, and quit hockey, his chances of a higher education seem even less probable. He’s got nothing going for him anymore besides a job at an expensive cafe and a few guys from the Aces that seem determined to weasel their way into his life. As much as he’d like to do college now (Samwell sounds especially nice) and possibly even play hockey again, his chances of getting in are slim to none.The idea is way more upsetting than it has any right to be, and the tight, stiff feeling from this morning suddenly slams back into him full force.

Fuck he can’t go to Uni and he can’t play hockey or do anything he likes what did he even like to do and now he’s somehow going out to a fancy expensive dinner with Kent Parson who has no reason to pay attention to him and probably wouldn’t want to know what a complete screw up Jack is and he doesn’t even have the right clothes what if something slips out what if Kent tries to do something he doesn’t want what if something happens and he’s ejected from yet another life it’s too much he can’t take being shunned one more time because then nobody would love him and he -

Jack’s throat is constricting. His eyes are watering; he squeezes them shut. His hands come up to press tight against his ears, and he curls in on himself. In his mental breakdown, he tries hard to conjure up what his mother would tell him when he was little: _you can’t control the situation, but you can control your state in this very moment and how you choose to act and react_.

Xanax. Where’s his Xanax?

_You can’t be dependant on drugs your whole life, Jack. Just try to calm down without them this time. Breathe. Focus your mind only on what you have to do to complete your next action._

He does. Big, shaky gulps of air, some of which get choked up halfway in or out, but get easier to manage the longer he breathes. His body slowly unclenches itself, and he directs his thoughts only on getting ready.

_Good boy. Now, shirt tucked in or left out?_

Tucked in.

_Socks: black or white?_

Black.

_Belt?_

Yes. Brown to match my shoes.

_Bien, Jack. You’re doing so well right now. Let’s get your hair fixed, ouais? Keep breathing darling; you’re going to pass out if you don’t._

Okay maman.

He walks to the bathroom as if on autopilot, picking up his gel and comb along the way to the sink.

 _Your hair’s getting a little too long for gel, don’t you think? Besides, you aren’t going to a press release. Just brush those beautiful waves of yours a couple of times and you’ll be golden._ Breathe _, Jack. It’s only dinner, not a death sentence._

Just the comb; okay. I’m going to run my fingers through it a couple of times, though.

_That’s fine, darling. You look fantastic tonight; like a true heartbreaker. You’ll make everybody jealous to either be you or be with you. Go get ‘e-_

**Bam!**

“Uncle Jack!!!”

Uncle Jack leaps about two feet into the air, snapped violently out of his reverie. The comb that he had been holding was now in the tub and the hair gel’s been knocked halfway out the door. Maddy’s feet pound on the floor as she tears through the apartment, probably in search of her most favouritist person ever (Hope had been sore for a while after that one). She finds him leaning against the sink in the bathroom, recovering from the sudden noise.

“Oooohhh, you look nice. Very...” Maddy scrunches her eyebrows. “Hands-mom. You are very handsmom. Are you okay?”

“‘Handsome,’ pumpkin. And yes, I’m fine. You just scared me when you banged open the door. Try to be a bit gentler next time, yeah?” Jack says quietly.

“Okay! Mommy said that you’re eating dinner with the man who was here on Saturday. She also said you like him very much,” she says.

“Yeah? Well sometimes your mommy lies, so you shouldn’t believe everything she says. But I _am_ having dinner with the man you met on Saturday.”

Maddy, the intelligent little girl that she is, picks up on it right away. “So you don’t like him?”

“No, I don’t like him the way your mommy wants me to.”

“Not yet, you mean,” Hope says, appearing behind her daughter. She runs her eyes down his body, appraising him as if he’s going to be on the cover of every magazine ever. “Maddy, sweetie, it’s time for bed. Can I trust you to go get changed like the big girl you are.”

“Yes!” she shouts, and bounds back to the room that she and Hope share.

“That’s a fine piece of ass if I’ve ever seen one,” Hope casually remarks once Maddy is gone. “You look really good, Z.”

“Thanks,” he says, blushing a little and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just not sure I can do this, Hope. And before you say anything, I know I promised him, but now’s not a good time.”

“Just because you promised him doesn’t mean you’re obligated to fulfill that promise,” she says. “But I think Kent really likes you, and he’d be disappointed to have you cancel on him a few minutes before he’s supposed to get here.”

He knows she means well, but it sounds like she’s attempting to explain complicated ideas and emotions to a child with her barely-informed advice. Jack considers telling her what happened in the bathroom, telling her everything, but he keeps his mouth shut tight and just nods. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, per se, it’s just that he has a hard time trusting anybody anymore; call it a souvenir of being cast out so many times in the past two years. He’s learned it’s better for him to keep to himself and deal with his problems alone than confide in people he thought loved or respected him. That way nobody gets hurt and nobody is any the wiser.

The buzzer goes off, alerting them that somebody is requesting access to the building. Hope gives him a helpless look.

“Last chance,” she says.

Jack steels himself, squares his shoulder in determination. “I’m going.”

Even if the dinner is a complete disaster, Hope’s brilliant and encouraging smile makes the whole endeavour worth the effort. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Balmorals are a type of dress shoe: http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61vsNNdxO0L._UY395_.jpg
> 
> Okay let's do this classic CP! debriefing style
> 
> \- Why is Jack so nervous? He knows Kent now.
> 
> Haha that's true, but we've also just learned that he has trust issues and was kicked out of more than just his house. Also, what is normal human interaction for us sometimes feels like a death sentence for him and 'proper socialization' does not come easily to him.
> 
> \- Maddy skating? She's still practically a toddler!
> 
> ... that's true.
> 
> \- Jack seems oddly interested in university, especially when he never planned to go
> 
> That is also true.
> 
> \- Where'd you get 'Zinc'?
> 
> I work with Yale, and Zinc is a really good restaurant there. A+ for stealing amirite?
> 
> Hey. Hey, there's a little box down below that let's you comment. Why not use it?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say it only gets worse before it gets better, but that would be a lie.
> 
> Oh noes...

“Hey.”

Oh… woah. Kent’s voice dies in his throat as he takes Jack in. Wow. That’s a good look. The dark green polo that Kent’s never seen before somehow makes Jack’s icy eyes just that much bluer, his skin a shade more tan. He’s seen those jeans before; those jeans were the ones Jack was wearing the day they met (a month ago now; where did time go?); the ones that make his whole lower body look fucking edible. His chocolate waves have been combed back and smoothed into submission, making them look like silk, and Kent wants to run his fingers through them endlessly. There are so many great things he could say about Jack’s appearance, all of them eloquent and poetic in his head.

What comes out instead is, “You look like a Starbucks barista.”

Jack’s expression closes off, and Kent flounders for a moment, trying to think of something so supplement his stupid comment, and quickly adds, “But, like, a good Starbucks barista. A Starbucks barista who knows how to dress. Fffrick - you - forget everything I just said.”

Jack doesn’t react, face blank and body language defensive. “Oh. Sure,” he says flatly.

What the fuck goes on in this guy’s head? Talking to him is like talking to a constipated brick wall 90% of the time, and Kent isn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He’s gotten so used to people automatically liking him, automatically being accepted, that it’s almost as if he’s forgotten that sometimes relationships take work. Easy grins and bad jokes won’t do shit on Jack, and if there’s one thing Kent’s learned in the past few weeks, it’s that most kinds of flirtation will go straight over his head and crash painfully into the wall behind. Well, either that or get him super confused. Obviously Kent needs to step up his game, rethink this play.

“Uh, so… We should go now. You got everything?” he asks.

“I think so.”

“Cool, so, my car’s down in the parking lot.” Kent half-pivots and jerks his thumb in the general direction of the shitty elevator down the hall.

At the car comment, Jack’s lips actually curve into an almost grin. What the fuck. “Let’s go.”

Kent’s doesn’t try to initiate conversation in the elevator, and the air is stifled with a thick, awkward silence. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and squirms, occasionally trading short glances from the corner of his eye with his elevator buddy, trying to remember the last time this kind of thing happened with anyone.

It’s Jack who ultimately ends up breaking the silence when he sees Kent’s car and says, “Hello again, gorgeous,” and gently runs a hand against the bonnet.

“Oh, I see how it is. You only wanted me so that you could get to Jessie,” says Kent, crossing his arms and watching him. He makes sure to keep a sloppy smile and an easy, satisfied aura about him so that Jack hopefully won’t clam up again.

Jack’s head snaps backwards, searching Kent’s face for any sign of malice or ill feelings. Finding none, he relaxes a little and says, “Yeah. Jessie’s the one I actually want. Oh man, the noises she makes when you drive in her; pure sex.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Did Jack just make an innuendo? Kent wants to laugh, to cry tears of joy at this precious, weird as fuck man in front of him. Maybe he’s got a chance yet.

“My car has successfully replaced me,” Kent chuckles incredulously. “I’m gonna have to chaperone you two, though. Make sure you don’t get too freaky.”

Jack throws his head back, a deep, rumbling laugh ripping it’s way out of his chest and surrounding them, closing himself, Kent, and the car named Jessie in a little bubble where time itself seems to stop. He’s vibrant like this, practically glowing, and a complete polar opposite of what he looked like not fifteen minutes ago.

And just like that, the tension is broken.

~*~

“Do you name all your shit?” asks Jack, swirling the heavy Pinot Noir around in his glass and taking a tiny sip.

Kent, who had just stepped outside to answer a call from his agent, slips the Samsung back in his jacket pocket. “How do you mean?”

“You named your car Jessie, and just now you said ‘Sammy’s ringing’ and pulled your phone out. Do you name all your shit?”

“Yeah. Pretty much,” he admits, settling into his pretentious industrial style chair. “If it’s important to me, it’s probably got a name.”

“So what’s mine?”

“Your what?”

“My name. My nickname.”

For a minute, Kent wants to deny everything. Say that Jack isn’t important to him, that Jack’s just an acquaintance who’s not yet become an integral part of his life, but that would be a lie. More than a lie, actually. Why else would Kent go to the Daily Grind religiously every morning now? Sure as hell not for the seven dollar coffee. Why else would he get distracted during training and practise by sending random texts to Jack, most of which go unreplied? Not to get pissed at by Kissel, that’s positive. Kent rented the fucking Kraft Arena just so he could get Jack to play hockey again, and if that isn’t love he doesn’t know what is. So he can’t deny that Jack is important to him, that he has a nickname and a special place in Kent’s heart.

“Zimms,” he says, and then drains the rest of his fruity Italian Riesling.

“So I’m Zimms?” Jack asks thoughtfully, more rhetorically than anything.

“Yeah. But like Everett is Chaser and Riley - that’s Riley van Dijk - is Dicky. Not like you're my car,” says Kent.

“Sounds better than Killjoy,” Jack says finally, as if the case is closed, the mystery has been solved.

“Yeah Zimms, just keep telling yourself that.”

“Braised lamb chops?” asks the petite waitress, swooping in with plates of food before Jack can respond to that. Jack raises his hand off the table to indicate that he’s the one who ordered the lamb. It looks fantastic, but lamb is too fatty for Kent and always sat wrong in his stomach whenever he used to eat it.

“And trout tartare for you, sir.” That's more like it. The waitress sets a plate down in front of him with a beautiful plateau of pale raw fish on it. “Can I get you another glass of wine?”

“Please,” says Kent, gesturing towards the empty cup. Jack’s is still pretty full. The waitress leaves.

“Not a wine person?” he asks.

“No. I prefer beer, but it didn’t really seem that appropriate for the situation,” Jack says, gaze laser focused on cutting his meat, like it’ll implode if he doesn’t watch it carefully enough.

They eat in relatively comfortable silence, but it must be Kent’s night to say stupid things more than usual because once the food has been transferred from the plates into their bodies, he asks, “So what is your dad like? Like, living with Bad Bob, wow, I can only imagine. It must have been so cool.”

Jack fucking shuts down. He closes off, stiffens, clenches his hand around his wine glass, doesn’t respond. Okay, so no daddy questions. What the hell?

The waitress, with her impeccable timing, comes to clear away the dishes and ask if they want any dessert.

“No,” Jack says abruptly, and the waitress gets the hint that she should probably leave. Now.

“I’ll just go fetch the cheque.”

"Why is your dad such a touchy subject? I honestly-”

Jack cuts in. “Stop. Kent - look - I’m really sorry about this, but I’m gonna catch a bus or a cab or something. I’m - I need to go. You’re great, really, but it’s complicated.”

 _It’s not you, it’s me_ , is what he takes away from it. The most cliche line ever, Kent thinks dully as he watches Jack disappear though the front door and into the night. His hopeful and excited mood crashes down around him, and he drains the rest of his wine. It’s suddenly not so sweet.

“Sorry about your guy,” says the waitress, who must have seen Jack get up. Kent hands her his credit card.

“Yeah. Over before it even started,” he mutters humorlessly, and the waitress shoots him a pitying glance.

“I know how it feels.”

~*~

Las Vegas, while not much of a hockey town, was practically built to be a party town. And Kent, while not much of a superstar yet, was famous enough that people still recognised him. And Kent needs a drink or five and an easy fuck, and to forget all about that trainwreck of a dinner with a weird as hell guy.

It’s the perfect recipe for disaster, and he’s so going to get all up in that.

Kent uses his fake to get into some random club, a place where he’ll probably be recognised by somebody, and orders two vodka shots a Jager Bomb, which is chased quickly by some fruity drink he picks at random. He just stands around at the bar for a while, sipping at the fruity drink that in retrospect is actually pretty disgusting and putting as little thought and effort into his life right now as possible.

Thursday generally isn’t a day where people go out, but the dancefloor is still respectably full. Full enough for Kent to try his luck at getting laid after becoming suitably drunk enough. He doesn’t know how he gets there, but he ends up grinding against some auburn haired chick with red nails who is probably more coherent than him right now. She blows him in the bathroom later and that’s that.

Kent stumbles out into the night, alone, cold, and empty, and the alcohol only serves to compound his issues. His life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows head apologetically* *apologizes* *considers the fact that I'll probably be doing a lot of that* *apologizes again*
> 
> Ok. Now that's out of the way:
> 
> Bear with me, but I love thinking that Kent would name his stuff. Like, I've had friends who did that, and it was so funny and quirky. Samsung. Sammy. Haha.
> 
> Jack is sooooooooooo fucked up right now, and you'll soon find out why. He needs a blanket and six thousand cups of tea and a roaring fire and somebody to talk to. He's been keeping a lot of things bottled up inside for a long time. Yeah.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy look: the tags have been updated!
> 
> and that's because this chapter is up. It's a big one, so hold on...

Jack was finally relaxing and joking around, remembering that sometimes people could be safe and generally enjoyable when Kent had brought up his dad again. It was an inevitable outcome, really, and Jack wishes he could be better at socialising so that he wouldn’t always withdraw when Bob Zimmermann was mentioned. But Kent keeps bringing him up again and again, maybe because of some morbid fascination with how Jack reacts.

Maybe Kent doesn’t actually like him and is using him as entertainment, or maybe he’s one of those people who befriend him only because his dad is famous. His head swims, fights against itself as if trying to win the same case with two completely opposing arguments. Today it just not his day, is it? Jack groans, the red wine and ambiguity giving him a splitting headache. Fucking tannins.

In a decision that seemed great when he first thought of it, Jack decides to try to walk home and clear his mind. Except he has no idea where he is, and he’s not dressed for desert nights. Forty five minutes in, he’s shivering, physically and mentally exhausted, and hopelessly, hopelessly lost. He thinks he’s still in the richer part of Las Vegas, but that’s about all he’s got to go on. Hailing a cab sounds nicer and nicer the further he walks, not willing or able to deal with public transportation tonight. His ears might as well fall off his body soon.

Jack flags down the fifth taxi he sees, gives his address, and tries not to think about how expensive this ride is going to be.

It’s pretty expensive.

But it gets him home, so.

~*~

“You’re home early,” Hope says when she looks up from whatever she was reading on her laptop. Her dark brown hair’s been pulled up in a messy bun on the top of her head, a style she only does when she has to focus on something intensely for a long time. She’s focusing on Jack pretty intensely, sitting attentively in the kitchen chair she has claimed.

“Yeah. I couldn’t,” Jack says, standing just inside the front door. He’s sure he looks pretty defeated; shoulders hunched, arms hanging weakly at his sides. He doesn’t want to imagine what his face looks like right now.

“Jack-”

“He keeps talking about my dad. Asking me questions about him. It’s like he doesn’t see that I don’t want to talk about him,” Jack says, collapsing into the chair across from her.

“Am I allowed to ask who your dad is?” Hope asks, closing her laptop. “You’re not obligated to answer me, but knowing might help me to get a better sense of what I’m working with here, why Kent is curious.”

Jack doesn’t want to answer her. Maybe it’s because he’s scared of what will happen, that letting Hope know will change their relationship, and not in a good way. But it’s time he trusted her judgement a little more.

“Bob Zimmermann,” he admits tiredly.

“Okay,” she says easily after a moment of silence. She leans forward on the table, supported by her forearms.

“You’re not bothered by that? “

“Jack. Do I watch hockey?” she deadpans.

“No.”

“Then why would I care? Sure your dad is famous, but he’s not you. I _know_ you; I know your dad only in name,” says Hope, leaning even further forward. “But it does make more sense now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m not going to give you any real advice until I know more, but I think you should talk to somebody, anybody about whatever happened with him. It’ll get it off your back, help you move on. Kent’s probably not someone you should tell right now because he likely needs to cool off from you just up and leaving. You could tell _me_ if you wanted, but I think another guy would understand your situation better. I’m sure Dan or Smitty would be happy to listen.”

“I’m not telling Dan,” Jack says quickly, putting the idea to rest before Hope can expand on it. “He’s a great friend, but he’s an avid hockey fan. He’d freak if he found out who my dad is.”

“That leaves Smitty.”

“No. Not Smitty.” Jack’s at that awkward stage with him where they’re friends but Smitty is still his boss, and so he still feels some need to keep a respectful distance.

“Okay…” She pauses thoughtfully. “Is there anybody else? Wait, didn’t you get one of the other Aces’ phone numbers?”

Jeff. Was she suggesting that he talk to Jeff, who was very much a hockey player and very much a complete stranger? What an idea. What, tell Jeff so that he could tell the entirety of The Aces and then the media that he knew where Bob Zimmermann’s fuckup of a son went, that Bad Bob’s son is a pansy? Yeah, no thanks.

And yet, a tiny part of Jack’s brain tells him that Jeff is a trustworthy, understanding guy. He’s got kids, a wife, and favour with most of the fans to lose if he makes his public reputation go to shit. Stupidly, the more he thinks about it, the more Jack is convinced that he could _, might_ actually do it.

Which he doesn’t want to. At all. Because for all talking might help him, there was always a greater possibility it could hurt him. It had happened before, and it was going to happen again, no questions asked.

“Jack?” Hope asks, snapping her fingers in front of his face. He flicks his eyes towards her, realising that he’d zoned out. “Oh good; you’re still with me. That guy from the Aces - talk to him, kay? Please?”

“Maybe,” he says ambiguously. “I need some time to think about it.”

“Take as much time as you need. Remember, Jack, that people care for you a lot more than you think.”

Jack stares at her dumbly, not comprehending how easygoing and gentle and calm she is being about this whole situation. He knows he’s liked, loved even, by Maddy and Hope, but there’s still that little voice on the edge of his conscious which tells him that people only care about how hard he works, how good he is, how handsome he looks. It’s a horrible, sadistic voice that whispers about how he’s a fucked up failure who will _never, never_ get better, and it’s been there ever since he left Pittsburgh for Shattuck’s.

“Alright, now scram. I have an essay to finish.”

~*~

The thing is, Jack is sick of being compared to his dad, as if Bob Zimmermann is some sort of device against which to measure skill. At Shattuck’s, the barrage was constant. Every day it seemed like there was a new snide remark or backhanded compliment that seemed to glorify the elder Zimmermann rather than the living, breathing player who was right in front of them.

“That slapshot was amazing!” one of his teammates would say. “Just like your dad’s.”

After bad losses it was always: “Obviously Bad Bob didn’t pass on much of his skill to you, Zimmermann.”

Or maybe in class: “Your dad is so charming, how come you’re so weird?”

He had been trying, okay? Shit, he’s still trying. He’s trying and trying and trying, and it’s just so fucking hard to carry on sometimes. It’s like he’s never enough, there’s always something lacking. He’s not his dad, was never destined to be the second or third or fuck-all coming of hockey, and now he’s not the magical guy Kent and his friends probably want him to be.

He’s just Jack, and he’s a person, too. He’s an actual human being who has, believe it or not, actual human emotions. And just because he’s bad at expressing them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It’s as though because people lifted him on this high pedestal - higher than his dad’s at one point - they expected him to do everything right, to always have the answer. And he didn’t. Doesn’t.

He’s just Jack, and he’s barely twenty, and he doesn’t know anything anymore. He’s scared and confused and he doesn’t have a family to fall back on. He needs somebody to understand that. He needs -

He needs somebody to talk to.

Fuck.

~*~

_Hello! You’ve reached the voicemail of Jeff O’Hare. Sorry I couldn’t answer the phone right now, but leave your name, number, and message, and I’ll get back to you ASAP. Tha-_

**Click.**

It figures he wouldn’t pick up. Who’d want to pick up for him, especially now that Kent’s probably told his whole team about how horrible Jack is?

_Message sent: 22:07 p.m._

**Hey it’s Jack**

_Message sent: 22:11 p.m._

**From the cafe**

_Message received: 22:14 p.m._

**jack laurent? i was wondering wen id hear from u**

Fuck it. He flips his phone closed and calls Jeff again. The guy picks up on the second ring. Somebody is shouting in the background.

“Hey Jack -”

“Oh no, Nemo!” somebody yells, the sound coming in muffled and garbled on the other end.

“Elise, please, daddy’s taking an important call. Sorry about that. How are you?”

Important. Jeff just called him important. Okay, well he technically called the call important, but it’s practically the same thing, isn’t it?

Jack sighs, leans over, and gets down to business. It’s now or never. “Is your offer to talk still standing?” he asks to avoid talking about how he’s feeling right now.

“Oh, yeah! One sec, let me just get away from the girls; they’re watching ‘Finding Nemo’ again even though it always ends in tears,” says Jeff, and the sound of rustling crackles through Jack’s tinny speaker, indicating that he’s getting up.

“Uh, I was actually wondering if we could talk in person. In private. I need to tell you some stuff,” Jack says, rubbing at the nape of his neck. He can’t believe he’s actually doing this.

“Sounds sketchy,” Jeff comments, and Jack can practically hear his eyebrows wiggling. “I think I can clear out my house for an hour or two tomorrow. There’s this new aquarium that the girls have just been dying to go to for the past few weeks, and I’m sure I could needle my wife into taking them there.”

“That’s great,” says Jack, lying back onto his bed. “Text me with whatever time works for you. I’m free after twelve.”

“You’re so lucky I’ve got morning practise. Hold on moment, let me just -” there’s a minute of silence and then some happy exclamations. “I’m back. Does three-forty five sound good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you my address, then.”

“Mhm,” Jack hums. “By the way, why are your kids up so late?”

“...Shut up, Laurent.”

“They’ve got you wrapped around their fingers, don’t they?”

“I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you tomorrow,” says Jeff.

He yawns; fuck he’s tired. Today has been a long day. “‘Kay. Bye.”

**Click.**

Jack falls into a dreamless sleep on top of his covers, still dressed in his dinner clothes.

~*~

The first thing he says once Jeff opens the door is: “Jack Laurent Zimmermann.”

“Woah there. Slow down, Jack, we’ve got time,” says Jeff, grabbing his wrist and leading him into a spacious kitchen. “Tea? Coffee?”

He sees Jack’s expression, takes in his body language. “Tea,” he decides, leaving no room for protest.

“I’m-” Jack tries to begin again.

Jeff chides him gently with a little ‘ah-ah’ and tells him to wait until the tea’s been made. “The living room’s just through there. Make yourself comfortable; you look like you need it.”

And so he does. Jeff’s couch is really nice, too. Jack feels like he’s sinking into a pillow filled with smooth mashed potatoes (strangely enough). It’s covered in buttery grey leather that probably cost a fortune to buy and keep up, but it’s the kind that feels amazing against his skin.

“Alright,” says Jeff, plonking a mug of - is that Jasmine? It’s been too long - tea down on his wood topped coffee table. He looks right into Jack’s eyes and says, “Sorry? What was that you blurted out on my doorstep?”

Jack steels himself. He’s going to do this, and hopefully it’ll… do something. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann. It’s my full name.”

“Well shit. Sorry, let me just process this for a minute… I thought you went to Europe to ‘pursue other options’?” asks Jeff.

“That was the media cover up, yeah. Obviously I’m not in Europe, am I?”

“No. You’re not.”

“That’s actually part of why I’m here, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. How do you feel about listening to the abridged story of fucked up kid for a couple of hours? All in confidence, yeah?”

Jeff shrugs. “I’ve got my doctor-patient confidentiality papers right here.”

~*~

“I was a weird baby. My parents were actually scared for me, you know? You’ve probably seen pictures, but I was always drooling, always had this blank, spaced-out stare. They thought something was wrong with me, like I had down syndrome or something, but luckily I got out of that stage by the time I could walk. That was when I tried on my first pair of skates, too, and hit the ice with my dad for the first time at one of those Christmas family skates at CONSOL. I was skating on my own by the end of the second hour and was pronounced a natural by pretty much his whole team. My mom and dad’s concerns about me went away for the most part.

“From the first year I could get onto a team, my life afterward revolved around hockey. Primary school wasn’t too bad on the whole, but I was kind-of chubby and sometimes got made fun of. All of that fat turned into muscle almost immediately after my early puberty hit, though, and when I left for Shattuck’s at age fifteen I had girls practically falling at my feet, but none of them peaked my interest. Beyond that, my dad had gotten traded back to the Canadiens, so I severed all my ties to Pittsburgh. That meant that by the time I was waiting for my plane to Minnesota I had only a ticket in my hand, a couple of duffles at my feet, and tons of broken relationships behind me.

“Shattuck’s was brutal, but I stayed there anyways. My teammates loved me on the ice for the most part, but they loathed me off of it. I was excluded a lot because I was the awkward nerdy kid who was secretly really talented. The coaches needled me constantly about measuring up to my dad’s standards, and it started getting to me. Suddenly, fifteen-year-old me had to play at NHL level or else I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t talented enough.

“And my roommate. He didn’t play hockey, but he was fucking ripped. Aaron Lowes, I think his name was. He was tough and cool but at the same time one of the nicest, most sincere guys I’d ever met. I started to realise that every day I would notice something new about him, physically or whatever, and that’s when I began to think that maybe the reason I hadn’t been interested in those girls back in Pittsburgh was because I just wasn’t interested in girls. Maybe my parents’ initial worries of something being wrong with me were coming true.

“By the time Christmas break rolled around and I got a couple of days at home, I was having full on anxiety attacks from the stress of my course load, the need to measure up in my hockey, and the thought that something was very, very wrong with my head. I tried to hide it because I wanted to be Bad Bob’s perfect son, but my mom found me huddled in a corner of my bathroom one day and dragged me to the first psychiatrist she could get. I got a pat on the shoulder and prescription for Atarax a few hours later.

“Atarax made me feel really good. It calmed my mind and made everything go slower, so I just started to take them. The effects were amazing: I was more focused in class and at practise, and I was sleeping better through the nights. My already high point average during games might as well have shattered the roof to pieces, and I felt invincible. Me and Atarax; there wasn’t anything we couldn’t do.

“Sophomore year started out really well, but everything fell to shit near the end of the season. Remember Aaron, the guy who I roomed with? Yeah, well he’d figured out that I was - well - and he wasn’t comfortable with it. He started to avoid me; stopped looking at me, talking to me. It was quiet, but it felt worse than the most vicious bodycheck you could get out on the ice. And if Aaron found out, then that meant my team could find out, and that would be suicide after that. So I had Aaron combined with hockey combined with schoolwork. So I took more pills.

And one day I took too many.”

Jeff starts. “Shit, man, that’s -”

Jack holds his palm in front of Jeff’s face. “Shh. I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” he says ruefully.

“So, I took too many pills and nearly OD’d, and my mom and dad brought me home for therapy and rehab. They told me that I should hold off on the hockey for now since to them that was really what caused the so-called ‘incident.’ They said I should focus on getting better, and I agreed with them wholeheartedly, but just not in the same way. I thought I needed to fix the fact that I was - was - gay. The anxiety attacks went away until I realised that gay is not a problem that can be fixed, and then they started up again. My mom taught me some cool techniques to help me through those, but I was still prescribed Xanax on the side. Just in case.

“What would be my junior year was spent pretty much getting better, but I went to a few training camps over the summer because I wanted to get back into the groove of things. I threw myself back into hockey like a dehydrated man at an oasis. That summer made me feel really good about myself, my game, and I was finally accepting who I was. The media were on me, calling me a top draft prospect as long as I could keep my track record of being clean so far. Once again I was Bad Bob’s son, son of a prodigy, but this time I didn’t care; I just played hockey.

“I came out to my parents just before our annual New Year’s party. My mom took it well. I was her little boy - how would she not? My dad, though. He, what’s the phrase, ‘flipped his shit’ and locked me up in my room, forbidding me from attending my own family’s party. He’d invited all of these top NHL guys to show me off, so imagine their surprise and shock when Bob Zimmermann said that I had gone crazy and bought a one way ticket to Brussels. He told them that I was no son of his, that I said I hated hockey and couldn’t bear to come back to it, so I just up and left. I was in my room the whole time, packing a backpack full of as much stuff as I could. I had read about horror stories about this, but I never thought it could happen to me. I ran away.

“By the second day of my exile, all my credit cards had been cancelled and the SIM card in my phone stopped working. I spent a year just wandering, hitchhiking to wherever I could and getting what work I could find. Nobody tried to contact me within that time. Sometimes I even resorted to -” Jack cuts himself off with a choked, shuddering gasp. He’s going to puke.

Jeff is quickly by his side, rubbing his back in soothing, circular motions. “To what, Jack? What did you resort to?”

“I sold myself. My body. When I needed to eat in a pinch, it was the best way to get a few dollars. God I hated it, but it kept me alive.

Finally I found Las Vegas. Or Las Vegas found me. But really it was my friend Hope who found me curled up on the side of the road, beaten and used, and got me to the hospital. Then she talked to her, our, boss Smitty and got me a job working at The Daily Grind. Hope has been my guardian angel this last year, and who knows where I’d be without her. Anyways, we’re all caught up to the present, and now I’m sitting in your house and I’ve just told you a story I’ve never told anybody else.”

Pregnant silence engulfs the airy living room. Jack is visibly shaking, tears silently streaming down his cheeks.

“This is a lot to take in,” says Jeff finally, slowly.

Jack can’t help but blurt out, “Don’t tell Kent.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t tell Kent, please, he can’t know, he hates me enough already.”

Jeff looks conflicted for a moment. “He doesn’t hate you. If anything he’s got the dumbest puppycrush on you, like kid-on-the-playground level puppycrush.”

“Sucks for him. But you still can’t tell.”

“I would never!” Jeff says, affronted. “Your story is yours to tell.”

“You won’t throw me out now, too, will you?”

“What? No. But I need to just… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me with this information. You’re a very strong young man, Jack. I want you to know that. All of the shit that happened in the past, that’s in the past, and you can start looking forward into the future now.”

Right. The future. Jack downs the dregs of his tea. “Do you think a University would accept me?”

“University? I don’t know. Maybe if it’s a community college. I think it depends on what you want to major in. But if you want it enough, you could do anything.”

The SMS alert on Jeff’s iPhone sounds, and he picks it up and reads the message.

He sighs. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but my wife just told me that she’s almost home and that I should be prepared for a couple of crazy girls, so our conversation will have to be cut short. Are you okay to get home?”

“I think so,” says Jack.

Jeff sees him to the door and says ‘thank you’ again while drawing him in for a bone crushing hug. Jack clutches on for the ride.

Hope was right; he does feel a lot better now that he’s told somebody, and Jeff was so good about everything. He can finally let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! 
> 
> Okay, I'm not going to write anything here this time around, but comments, questions, and suggestions are always welcome and appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go home, Kent, you're drunk.

Kent didn’t try to contact Jack after that disastrous dinner. He stopped going out for coffee in the mornings, opting instead to survive for a few days on shitty instant stuff while he went out and bought himself the most expensive motherfucking coffee machine he could. The 6,000 dollars he spent on that chrome monstrosity would pay for itself, eventually.

The condo’s silence wraps around him, stifling his already stilted breaths and choking him. The black coffee in his hand tastes like battery acid, and the warmth of the cup, usually comforting, burns his skin. They’re leaving for a pre-season game to Anaheim tomorrow, and for possibly the first time in his life Kent wants to curl up and die instead. He gulps down the rest of the battery-acid-coffee, shoves the remainder of his whole wheat, organic toast in his mouth, and makes motions to find his suitcase. The dirty dishes are left on his white, poly-something countertop.

The condo is pretty cold and utilitarian, Kent considers while he hunts around for his elusive bag, and a couple months of living in it has not yet turned it into a home. He should probably buy some furniture, maybe a couple of pictures to cover the white and grey walls. The open concept main area seemed like a great idea when he bought the thing, great for parties, but now it just feels empty and lonely, like it’s waiting for something it may never get. Fuck it, he thinks to himself, he’s going shopping when he gets back.

~*~

The Ducks beat them 4-1, and it just serves to add insult to injury. Kent gets drunker than he ever remembers being, but he doesn’t feel like dancing, doesn’t want to even attempt hooking up. He sits, slumped over on the table, and laments his whole existence.

“Why does he hate me, Dicks, why? I didn’t even do anythinggg,” he moans.

“Probably ‘cause you’re an ass 90% of the time,” Riley says, patting his back. Kent shoots him a look, and Riley stops. “Sorry.”

“I’m gonna text him,” Kent says, because it suddenly sounds like a really good idea to contact the guy who walked out on him for no reason.

“Kent I don’t think -”

“Shut up. I’m gonna do it and everything will be better.” Kent pulls out his mobile.

_Message sent: 23:48 p.m._

**Jscl**

Riley sighs. “Sure, buddy.”

“Hey! You just wait and see.”

_Message sent: 23:50 p.m._

**Hey jack**

_Message sent: 23:51 p.m._

**Y do u h8 me jvk**

_Message sent: 23:52 p.m._

**Y**

_Message sent: 23:52 p.m._

**Wat dd i do 23 u :((((((**

_Message sent: 23:54 p.m._

**:::::((((((((((((((((****((*()((((**

Kent continues to type out sad faces, trying to get Jack to feel how sad he is, but Riley snatches the phone from his hands before he can send another batch.

“I think you’re done for tonight. He probably has work in the morning, and we,” he slips it into his pocket and hauls Kent up from his chair, “have a plane to catch tomorrow.”

“Dickyyyyyy,” Kent whines into his shouder. “You’re such a dick. I need to be sad and you’re not letting me.”

“S’ why they call me that. Come on Parse, we’ve already broken curfew.”

Kent huffs, but allows himself to be led, stumbling, out of the bar. “No it’s not. It’s because your name is Van Die - Van D _ij_ k.”

Riley sighs and chuckles a little, managing to hail a cab with a very intoxicated winger leaning his whole weight on him, stuff said winger into the backseat, and get the cab going to the hotel where Kissel is sure to give them a right cutting when he found them.

Kent leans against the window and lets the cool glass calm his pounding head. He hiccoughs. Riley is magical, really, for putting up with his sorry ass.

And he’s going to be sooo hung-over in the morning.

~*~

He wakes up when Riley starts to beat him with a pillow.

Because he’s an ass, Riley shouts, “Come on princess, time to wake up!” right into Kent’s ear.

Kent groans and tries to bury himself under his duvet. Riley, having none of it, rips the thing clean off the bed and slaps him on the back. _Hard_.

“Ergghhh, fuck. Fuck you, Dicks.”

“Gotta live up to the name somehow. Also, my obligatory roommate's good deed was done last night, so.”

Kent pushes himself up slowly, trying to minimize the feeling of somebody assaulting his brain with a knife to no avail. When he rolls off his stomach to face not-the-headboard, there’s a Poland Spring bottle flying straight for his face and a smug Riley standing half in the bathroom door. He stays long enough to watch the plastic bottle make contact with its (vaguely alarmed) target before fortifying himself in the bathroom.

“Seriously. Fuck you!” Kent calls, then winces.

“M’ showering now,” Riley replies, equally loud. “Your guy texted, by the way!”

Kent breaks the safety seal and says, “He’s not my guy!”

The sound of the shower starts, and Kent chugs a good three quarters of the bottle before remembering that Riley probably left him some ibuprofen, too. A quick look at the side table confirms that there are indeed a few ibuprofen calling his name.

It takes fifteen minutes for him to feel remotely human enough to check his messages. There is only one in his inbox, from Jack, and it says: **Are you drunk?** That’s it. No sympathy, no declaration of feelings, just ‘are you drunk.’

Well fuck him, Kent thinks and tosses his phone aside. Whatever. Jack’s just a stupid barista anyway, and Kent is a superstar. He can get anyone he wants; he doesn’t want some dumb guy who can’t ever make up his mind. Whatever.

~*~

Kent always thought that shopping was supposed to be therapeutic. Wasn’t that why people got addicted to it or something? Maybe that was only clothes shopping. Either way, he decides, shopping is absolutely not therapeutic, especially because he is expected to know the difference between mid-century modern and postmodern for some reason, and he has no clue what either of those things mean.

He’d just wanted company, and now Kent’s got Chaser’s fiance stuck on him asking him tons of questions he doesn’t know the answers to.

“Look, can’t we just go to Ikea?” he says while EmJ looks at rugs.

“No,” she says simply, and continues to look. “What do you think of shag rugs?”

Shag rugs? What - oh fuck no. No shag rugs are ever laying themselves down in his living spaces. “No.”

“Do you even know what you want? It’d be nice to have a colour scheme or a style you like. Give me something to work with here.”

“I like Ikea style,” he says, and EmJ glares at him. “Uh, I also like the rug you guys have in your house?”

“Jute doesn’t go with black leather, Kent. Try again.”

“Wait, you’re trying to match my rug to my couch? That’s a thing?”

Her blue eyes narrow, as if to ask ‘are you for real?’ “Yes it’s a thing. We could try cowhide, I suppose. I’ll see if we can get anything in grey.”

Nice, Kent actually knows what that is and he likes it. He shrugs. “Sure.”

EmJ looks like she’s just been told the greatest thing on earth. She might as well have, because they’ve been looking at rugs for the past two and a half hours. “Good, that’s the essentials. Now we can work on finding a coffee table, pillows, lamps, plants, pictures, curtains, and a mount for your new TV.”

He groans.

~*~

Friday afternoon finds Kent laying in his newly furnished (industrial style, Kent, it’s very important to know that) living room watching an old rerun of Mash. He is absolutely not thinking about what happened a week ago yesterday. Or the fact that The Aces already have a pre-season losing streak going for them, and it’s doesn’t look like it’ll end anytime soon. A point drought. A goal deficiency. Heh.

On screen, Hawkeye says something about not having any Penicillin. The doorbell rings.

He hauls ass to open it even though he’s not expecting anybody today - the team has days off for a reason.

“Hey.”

It’s Jack. On the front stoop.

“Can I come in?” **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, but I guess you could call it character development.
> 
> Let's do notes:
> 
> \- Who is Riley (Dicks/Dicky)?  
> Remember when Kent and Jack went skating a the last name 'Van Dijk' was briefly mentioned? Yeah, that's Riley. His last name is pronounced like 'Van Dike', but some guys started calling him Van Dick, and it sort-of just stuck. also, he's Kent's road roomie (fun, yeah?).
> 
> \- What month is it, even? I'm so confused.  
> It's mid-late October.
> 
> \- EmJ?  
> The fiancé Kent told Jack about, the one he supposedly got kicked out over. Her full name is Emily Jane Thatcher, and she'll show up later, too.
> 
> \- The fuck is Mash?  
> Hey. Hey. That's one of my favourite shows. It's really old at this point, but it's good, and I wanted Kent to know the love that is this show: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068098/
> 
> \- Also, industrial style: https://fourwallspluslove.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/brooklyn-loft_01.jpg
> 
> That is all.
> 
> If you liked this chapter or the story so far, please feel free to leave a comment. Comments are love!

**Author's Note:**

> Kent probably has the most obnoxious coffee orders. I actually searched 'dumbest types of milk' and then 'stupid type of milk' just for him and coconut milk came up first for both results. 
> 
> I don't know if there is such a thing as 'maple coffee' but even in theory it sounds gross. Like, I love maple syrup more than money, and maple tea is really good, but maple coffee... ewww.
> 
> As always, comments, questions, and suggestions are more than welcome!
> 
> Up next: Kent's mentor drank all of his instant coffee.  
> Later: Jack burns some Kraft Dinner.


End file.
